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SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 




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SCATTER-GUN 
SKETCHES 

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SPORT AMONG UPLAND GAME BIRDS AND 
WATERFOWL WITH THE GUN 

PUBLISHED BY 

WILLIAM C. HAZELTON 

SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS 

1922 



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AUG 24 22 

©CUC77990 



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Sangamo on Point, Dr. O. F. Maxon, Owner, 
Springfield, III. 



SPORT 



BY DUNCAN ANDEESON 

The canvasback a double zest affords, 
And yields a dish to ' ' set before a king, ' ' 

And where the north-shore streams rush to the sea, 
Here the rare harlequin shoots past on rapid wing. 

To Grondine's fiats the ibis yet returns, 

The snowy goose loves well the sedgy shore; 

Loud booms the bittern 'midst the clustering reeds, 
And the famed heron nests on pine-top as of yore. 

The shady copse the wary woodcock haunts ; 

From Chauteau Richer 's swamps the snipe upsprings; 
Tennessee's fields know well the scurrying quail, 

O'er the glassy lake the loon's weird laughter rings. 

Resplendent through the grove the turkey roams. 
And lends a deeper grace to Christmas cheer; 

Our silvery lakes still claim the graceful swan ; 

And o'er the uplands shrill the plover's pipe we hear. 



DEDICATION 



To 
M. R. B., 

The "Home Camp" listener to these tales, 

this volume is affectionately 

dedicated. 



Copyright by W. C. Hazelton, 1922,. 



PRESS OF PHILLIPS BROS., SPRINGFIELD, ILL. 



CONTENTS 



Opening Day 1 

Shore Bird Shooting — "Summers" and "Winters" . . 7 

Woodcock and Partridge — Church's Double .... 15 

A Mixed Bag 25 

Rail Shooting on Connecticut River 33 

Duck and Plover Shooting in the Pacific Northwest 40 

On the Headwaters of the Tuolumne 49 

With the Connecticut Trout 54 

The Big Trout of Deep River Brook 64 

"D n That Hawg" 73 

The Dude and I Battery Shooting at Pamlico Sound . 90 

Roast Goose and "Fixin's" at Pea Island 106 

Deer Hunting in South Carolina 110 

Among the Carolina "Hens" and "Gobblers" . . . . 118 

Duck Shooting in South Carolina Rice Fields . . . 123 



Books on hunting Wildfowl and Upland Game Birds 
published by W. C. Hazelton: 

1916, Duck Shooting and Hunting Sketches. 
1919, Ducking Days. 

1921, Wildfowling Tales. 

1922, Tales of Duck and Goose Shooting, 
1922, Scatter-Gun Sketches. 

Editions now exhausted of the first two volumes. 



Chicago address, 407 Pontiac Bldg. 



PREFACE 



WHEN stern necessity and the cares of business 
bind and you can't get away on that long- 
anticipated shooting trip, how often can you 
find relief from the "Call of the Wild" in reading how 
some other hunter did get away and bagged his geese 
and ducks, tramped the fields and covers after partridge 
and woodcock, or called up and killed the fine fat gobbler? 

When you are bound for the metropolis and the train 
roars over the trestle crossing the slough in the marsh, 
how often do you recall so vividly the red-letter day 
when the black ducks and mallards were literally falling 
over your gun barrels in that similar slough in the 
Southland, or when you rattle by the little brook 
trickling through the alder run, how often do you 
picture to yourself the successful shot you made on 
Mr. Longbill last October, as he was topping just such 
a "lucky hole"? 

When gathered around the blazing camp-fire or hug- 
ging tight the red-hot stove, how often have you heard 
the "old timers" spin the yarns that linger with you, 
still so strenuously alive, though their authors have long 
since gone to the "Happy Hunting Grounds"? 

It is because of these things and also for the reason 
that there is a great deal of satisfaction in setting down 
some record of your various shoots that your children 
may read that I have written these stories. They are 
sketches of some of my own experiences during the last 
few years and I have not delved too far into the past as 
time often serves to dull the lustre of a sterling yarn. 

Horatio Bigelow. 

Charleston, South Carolina. 



AUTUMN'S LURE 

J. S. WHIPPLE 



Fleecy clouds across the heavens, 

Autumn haze hangs round the hills, 
Squirrels chatter in the tree-tops, 

Sweetly sings the mountain rills. 
Partridge drums in hazel thicket, 

Calliog, calling, to his mate; 
Air is full of brown leaves falling, 

Leaving tree-tops desolate. 

Comes the deer from yonder thicket, 

Where in hiding he has been, 
Softly steps into the water, 

Fearful — looking down the glen, 
Head erect, ears keen for noises — 

What a picture there he makes, 
Standing, listening like a sentry, 

But to vanish in the brakes. 

Visions these of many Autumns 

When the smoky haze comes down, 
Shutting out the far horizon, 

Shutting in the sleepy town. 
Days so full of gorgeous glory, 

Touching every field and hill, 
Painting: there the wondrous story 

Of the Master's hand and skill. 



OPENING DAY 



THOMPSON had often urged me to try a day's 
shoot with "Jim" Dennison and as October 1st 
approached, he redoubled his entreaties. Finally 
without any real thought of going I told him to make 
arrangements with "Jim" for opening day. When the 
day arrived my in differ ence had vanished and I was as 
anxious as Thompson himself to get the motor started 
and headed for Groton, Dennison 's home. Arrived at 
our destination, we found that "Jim," through some 
misunderstanding, was not expecting us until the follow- 
ing week and had departed on a house-painting job. 
We were on his trail in short order and "ran him to 
earth" working on Deacon Perkins' barn. Said Denni- 
son, "I promised the Deacon to finish his barn for him 
this week, but it's such a pretty day I guess I can come 
along with yer for a few hours. Let's go back to the 
house so I can get my gun and coat." 

Jim was soon ready, lifted the two dogs, "Nell," an 
old setter, and a young pointer named "Pete," into the 
tonneau, jumped in with them, and I headed the car 
for Centre Groton. We worked out two covers "en 
route," the first a huckleberry pasture bordering on the 
old race track near Poquonoc, where a covey of quail 
usually hung out, and the second an impenetrable tangle 



2 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

of briars, wild-grape vines and stunted cedars along 
the "Laurel Drive" where Br'er Partridge often made 
his home. The dogs didn't find a trace of game in the 
pasture, but in the briar patch we heard an old partridge 
roar up well ahead of us and "Pete," who had rushed 
headlong into the cover, came sneaking back with his 
tail between his legs and looking very properly ashamed. 
After an unsuccessful tramp hunting for more birds, 
"Jim" exclaimed, "Let's leave, boys, that bird's the 
only one here. We'll strike into that hazel patch of 
Haley's over on the Old Mystic road. A fellow from 
New London killed seventeen woodcock there one after- 
noon during the flight last year." 

A short spin in the clear, frosty air and we were on 
the ground. Thompson let down the bars and I ran 
the car into the woods on the opposite side of the road 
from the hazel patch. We left it there, out of sight of 
passers-by as a matter of precaution, and invaded 
Mr. Longbill's domain. We had not gone far before I 
heard a shot from Thompson and a minute later what 
seemed to be a large brown bumblebee flopped through 
the leaves and dropped into the cover just ahead of me. 
I walked forward a few steps and flushed the woodcock 
again. She was in sight for an instant only and then 
dove through the red and brown hazel leaves. I thought 
I had held about right when I pressed the trigger and 
sure enough "Pete," who had galloped into the brush 
when I fired, came trotting proudly back with a fine fat 
bird in his mouth. 



OPENING DAY 3 

"Shank's mare" was pretty well exercised before we 
found another. This time Dennison flushed a woodcock 
in a thick growth of birches. The bird, as it came to 
the edge of the cover, soared np through the leaves of 
a big oak and Dennison tried a shot at her with his 
twenty gauge. She still kept on going and further 
remonstrance from my twelve only quickened her flight. 
We were unable to put her up again and went on. I 
was well to the end of our line when a longbill rose on 
my left. I swung around and had a nice straightaway 
chance at him as he flew down the open over some low 
brush. At the crack of the gun the woodcock dropped 
in a cloud of feathers and we whistled in "Pete" to 
retrieve. I thought I had marked the bird down but 
neither "Nell" nor "Pete" could seem to find him. 
We searched for about fifteen minutes till "Jim" said, 
"He probably wasn't so far away as you thought." I 
turned around and started back towards where I had 
been standing and had only taken a few steps when I 
nearly stepped on the woodcock, lying on his back, stone 
dead. 

A few minutes afterwards I heard a shot from 
Dennison and a woodcock flew right over my head from 
behind. I waited till she dropped down and started 
after her. She flushed wild and went up through the 
tree-tops like a bat. When I finally had a second's clear 
view of her the bird certainly seemed small and I was 
indeed pleased when she came rustling down through 
the autumn foliage at my shot. 



4 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

We were unable to find more woodcock in the hazel 
patch and trudged along the wooded ridge adjoining to 
start a partridge if possible. Dennison was telling me 
about some of his shooting experiences when he was a 
boy and game was plenty. Said he: "I was huntin' 
with 'Pop' and two of his city friends. They started 
a woodcock which flew in my direction and lit in some 
low bushes in front of me. 'Pop' came over and hol- 
lered, 'Bud, where's that cock!' I was some excited 
and when I pointed my gun into the brush where the 
bird had gone I pulled the trigger. Nothing got up, 
but the dog rushed in and came out presently with the 
woodcock, dead, in his mouth. Pretty hard to beat that 
shot, eh?" 

We got back to the car without finding a partridge, 
and found old Haley and his son with another old fellow, 
looking over the machine. Haley knew Dennison well 
and seemed pleased to see him — also me when I pulled 
a small flask out of my hip pocket. The old fellow 
must have had an interior of cast-iron for the high- 
proof whiskey kept trickling down his gullet until I 
thought he would never stop. At last he reluctantly 
withdrew the bottle from his lips and gave a long sigh 
of satisfaction. "Come again," he cried. "I'm always 
glad to do anything for a friend of Jim's. My boy and 
I just come over to see who was doin' the shootin'. 
We found your car and were thinkin' perhaps we'd 
padlock it to a tree with an ox-chain, but it's all right 
now — shoot anywhere you mind to. ' ' Haley and his boy 
then waved us good-bye and started back to the little 
red farmhouse just beyond the hazel patch. 



OPENING DAY 5 

"Jim" in the meantime, had been talking with the 
other old fellow whose name was Haley also, and when 
I backed the car out he whispered to me, "If we go 
down the road a piece and take this farmer home, he 
says he'll let us shoot over his corn piece where he saw 
a covey of quail early this morning." 

We hustled Haley No. 2 home to his great delight. 
Leaving him at the lane running up to his house, we 
let down the bars and turned the car into the cornfield, 
a foolish proceeding, as it proved, for the quail were 
there indeed. The whole covey flushed with a "whir" 
of many wings and shot like so many bullets into the 
briar patches that lined the^ field. "Pete" and "Nell" 
were out in an instant and we were right on their heels. 
Dennison and Thompson followed the dogs, who were 
galloping towards the cover into which the birds had 
flown. I circled to the left with the idea of working 
ahead with the others and perhaps getting a shot at 
birds that flushed before them. On the further side of 
the brush was a boggy meadow with tussocks of grass 
and high blueberry bushes. A fine spot for the birds 
to "lie close!" As I was balancing on one of the tus- 
socks I heard two shots and three quail whizzed by me 
as if the Old Nick himself were after them. I knew 
when I pulled the trigger on the first that I was shooting 
behind him, but I felt sure of the last bird. I was 
doomed to disappointment, however, as all three kept 
on till I marked them down in an impenetrable thicket of 
of cat briars. Dennison came up, tucking a fat little 



6 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

hen quail into his back pocket. He was certainly in his 
element with "Bob White" and his twenty gauge as he 
spent every winter "down South" breaking dogs and 
"shootin' birds." He had spotted two a short distance 
from where we stood and when we flushed them his 
was the only gun that spoke as the quail were right in 
line with him and quickly gained the cover. That is, 
one did; the other, well centred by the charge from the 
little gun, tumbled into the grass for "Pete" to bring in. 

I was resolved to take toll from the three that had 
escaped me, and so attacked the cat briars. They gave 
me a most affectionate welcome as if to say, "Don't be 
in a hurry," and I didn't get away from them without 
bearing sundry tokens of their esteem in the shape of 
scratches. The quail didn't wait for me and rose noisily 
before I had thoroughly made good my onslaught on 
their retreat. One small cock had the temerity to give 
me a glimpse of him as he vanished into a pine tree 
and he dropped dead on its further side as the result 
of my "snap." 

Breakfast had been an early one and the inner man 
was clamoring for lunch, but as I came out to "Jim" 
in the meadow I heard the sweet whistle of first one 
quail and then another out in the field. "Khloi-hee, 
khloie-hee." The temptation was too strong for both of 
us and we headed towards the whistle. The two birds 
rose at the same instant and we each had a nice straight- 
away chance and we each shot two barrels. "Did we 
get them?" 



OPENING DAY 7 

"Ask 'Jim' — lie knows." 

On our way back to the car and the grnb pile we 
passed through the cornfield where we first fonnd the 
quail. At the edge of the stubble our path took us by 
some rows of onions and some melon vines but what 
was more there were musk melons and watermelons on 
the vines and they looked ripe. We felt sure Haley 
would be pleased to have us sample them and started on 
the musk melons. They were musky for sure and didn't 
seem very popular as one mouthful usually spelled 
"enough!" With the watermelons it was a different 
story and it was lucky for us we didn't meet Haley when 
we headed the car for Groton for if he had any plans 
as to the future of those melons our faces bore indisput- 
able evidence as to their destruction. 



SHORE BIRD SHOOTING— "SUMMERS" 
AND "WINTERS" 



CLARENCE LEONARD is a friend who has put 
me next to some good shooting more than once, 
so when I received the following letter from him 
I felt sure results would follow. "Dear B. — Please try 
to be at my house by 3 A. M., Tuesday next, the 15th. 
T have discovered a lot of birds haunted in a marsh 
some twenty minutes ' drive with machine from here, 
and they will probably make good shooting if we can 
get there by daylight. If I don't hear from you, shall 
look for you at my house Tuesday next at that time." 

At 2 :15 A. M. on the 15th, we grabbed guns, shells 
and lunch, and Ray, Rip and the Scribe set sail for 
Leonard's. 

Clarence was on deck with a market basket full of 
wooden " yaller-legs ' ' and old Plum-centre, his trusty 
L. C. Smith twelve gauge. A short tack to wind'ard 
and we came to anchor in Uncle Lige Pratt 's yard down 
Duxbury way. We meandered through a huckleberry 
pasture, fell over and demolished a couple of stone 
walls, located a dim and distant trail through the long, 
wet grass of a deserted apple orchard, and fought 



OPENING DAY 9 

our way through blood-thirsty, war-whooping clouds of 
mosquitoes defending a boggy wood lot, and we were on 
the marsh. A hundred yards from the river was our 
stand — a low circle of water bushes enclosing a log seat 
and in the shallow, muddy pond in front of us Leonard 
set out the stool head on to the fresh southwest breeze, 
in two groups, one on either side. 

Yellow-legs were calling all around us — "summers" 
and ' ' winters. " " More 'n seventy ' winters ' opened their 
throats all at once,'' as Clarence described one particu- 
larly noisy demonstration from the east'ard. Little 
pods of black ducks shot by speeding toward the mud 
flats at the river mouth. They were probably counting 
on an immunity bath till October 1, but a fusillade from 
a stand across the river disillusioned them. Some 
gunner couldn't stand the strain. 

* ' Whew ! whew ! whew ! ' ' And again, ' i Whew I whew ! 
whew!!" "Mark east, a 'winter'!" 

The alluring strains of Leonard's whistle turned the 
bird our way, but it was still too dark to see our decoys, 
or else the "yaller-leg" was of a nervous disposition, 
for he swooped along the further shore of the pond, 
and landed on a mud flat at the west end out of range. 

Ray and Eip were anxious to stalk the bird, which 
had now disappeared behind a tuft of grass, but Leonard 
dissuaded them by saying they would probably lose some 
good shots if they left the stand. 

Another "winter" and several "summer" yellow-legs 
joined the pioneer at the end of the pond, and we had 



10 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

literally to "hog-tie" the two boys to keep them from 
starting an offensive. 

Four "summers" of an exclusive turn of mind pitched 
camp in another puddle to the east'ard. 

Bang! bang! bang! bang! The stand across the 
river had opened hostilities, and one of our neighbors 
from the east'ard decided to pay us a call. Ray and 
Eip gave him a cordial welcome with four shots, and 
the "summer" passed out, his long yellow legs giving 
one last futile kick as he drifted down the pond on his 
back. 

As the sun rose, the birds began stirring, and for a 
short while the fun was fast and furious. A few of 
the "winters," but mostly "summers," were our visi- 
tors. The former passed by unscathed, but several of 
the latter stayed with us. Leonard was giving us a 
chance to demonstrate our scatter-gun efficiency, and it 
was a minus quality. Clarence himself had not yet un- 
limbered "Plum-centre," but his efforts on the little 
whistle, whenever there was a bird in the air, brought 
him swooping our way as if there was a piece of string 
tied to him. The whistle was a piece of tin the size of 
a silver dollar with a small hole in the middle over 
which the tin was folded. With this contrivance between 
his lips, the open side out, and the small hole against 
his tongue, Clarence could talk "shore bird" with all 
the migrating tribes. I have heard many callers in 
thirty years on the marshes, some with mechanical 
whistles and others with their lips, but none could com- 



SHORE BIRD SHOOTING 11 

pare with Leonard, and whenever they tried conclusions 
with him the result was always the same, everybody else 
occupied chairs in the dress-circle, while Leonard held 
the stage with the birds. 

During a lull in the flight, Eay and Rip stalked the 
"winters" at the west end of the pond, a futile attempt, 
as the birds rose a long shot distant from the gunners, 
and nothing resulted from the ensuing discharge. 

I routed out the kodak and snapped a picture or two 
of Leonard picking up the dead birds floating in the 
pond — the results of our last shot, six down out of a 
flock of seven "summers" that had come right into our 
face and eyes in answer to the seductive call. Then he 
squatted down in the stand while I tried a picture of 
the layout. 

I heard the mellow note of a "summer" and stood 
still while Clarence made a neat right and left. Re- 
inforcements had arrived — "ole Plum-centre" had now 
opened up. 

A little later, while we were all in the stand, a flock 
of eight "summers" happened on the scene, and great 
was the slaughter thereof. One survivor hustled off for 
Duxbury — the reserves had proved too much for them. 

After 8 o'clock the shooting fell off. We had over 
thirty "summers" in the little pile under the grass in 
the shadow of the stand, but no "winters." The next 
flurry was due to occur when the tide came up over the 
marsh at 2. During the interval we killed several more 
single "summers," and missed two chances at single 



12 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

" winters." One of these big fellows came in from be- 
hind us and was missed by both boys, while the other 
flopped right into my face to escape both barrels. The 
boys also burnt some powder when Leonard whistled 
this last one back, but only served to accelerate his de- 
parture for Duxbury. 

As we were consuming the last crumb of lunch, a 
single "summer" dropped in. Both boys fired, and the 
bird fell. Up till now, Rip had claimed most of the 
birds after each discharge, so Leonard thought he would 
get ahead of him. He ran out into the pond, picked up 
the bird, and exclaimed, "Anyway, I got that one!" 
Eip and Ray were so surprised that they could say 
nothing. 

A young fellow, a cousin of Leonard's, who had been 
shooting just across the river, came over to visit. He 
told us that he and his brother had killed twenty-three 
"summers," and that the two men in the stand beyond 
them had sixty-one. He and Leonard decided that the 
birds had changed their line of flight from the Duxbury 
marsh so that instead of passing over us, they were 
cutting across further to the southwest. To prove their 
contention, we caught sight of first a pair, and then a 
flock of nine "summers" following the river course. 
The breeze had died away and Leonard's whistle enticed 
the pair and four of the nine yellow-legs our way. We 
accounted for both the former and three of the latter. 

Later on, three more followed the same route, and as 
they whirled over the stool, Ray jumped to his feet and 



SHORE BIRD SHOOTING 13 

fired. One bird fell, but the combination of an extra 
heavy load and the slippery mud on the floor of the 
stand proved the youngster's undoing and the salvation 
of the other two birds. At the crack of the gun, the 
boy came splashing back in a shower of mud, stumbled 
over Bay and the Scribe, who were just going to un- 
limber their fowling pieces, and all three of us came 
down with such a thud in the mess below us that we 
were some minutes getting free from the sticky mud. 
Leonard and his cousin were laughing so heartily at 
our mishap that they could not shoot, and so the other 
yellow-legs escaped. 

Leonard's cousin left us and had barely reached his 
boat on the river bank, before the tide, which had been 
pouring into the eastern end of our pond, flooded the 
marsh. A minute later Leonard whispered, "Look 
there ! ' ' 

A quarter of a mile to the sou 'west two large flocks 
of "summers" were circling. At the call of the whistle 
they joined forces, set their wings and swooped down 
on our harmless decoys. We all emptied into their 
serried ranks, and when they reformed and swung by 
again, two barrels from each of us again took toll. The 
air was full of feathers, the pond of dead and dying 
yellow-legs, and the long marsh grass of cripples. Out 
of the invading force of thirty birds, only four survivors 
escaped. 

We then ran out and started across the pond to 
gather up the cripples before the tide carried them 



14 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

off, then picked up the dead. While thus engaged, first 
one, and then another single, remnants of the scattered 
host, tried to spy out the battlefield, but a shot apiece 
laid them low. 

We now had fifty-eight "summer" yellow-legs in our 
pile, our shells were spent and the flivver was straining 
at her anchor. "All aboard!" now shouted Captain 
Leonard, and the rattle of the Peace Ship drowned all 
sounds of our final discussion of summer shore bird 
shooting. 



WOODCOCK AND PARTRIDGE— 
CHURCH'S DOUBLE 



"^ IT "TELL, William, what's the program today?" 
Y/Y/ cried I as I stopped the machine at Church's 

door. 
Church lifted his setter, Count, into the tonneau, slid 
his Marlin repeater in afterwards, climbed into the 
front seat beside me and said, "I guess we'll start in 
at the woodcock ground at the lake, then try the swamp 
hole near Abell's, hunt Powell's lot and then the Packer 
place and finish up at Ford's swamp." 

This seemed a good layout to me and in about ten 
minutes we stopped at a pair of bars that let us into 
the woodcock ground. Birches and maples with occa- 
sional patches of laurel and high huckleberry bushes 
formed the cover along the eastern shore of Gardner's 
Lake, and if the longbills were not there, we were quite 
sure of finding one in the alder run nearby. We hunted 
the south side of the "edge" without success, though 
Count kept trying to work to the north of us. We 
thought we'd see what interested him so much and let 
him have his way, while we followed. Count made 
game while Church and I got ready for business. Sud- 
denly with twittering wings a woodcock flushed wild in 

15 



16 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

front of Church and he fired but missed as the bird was 
nearly out of range. We marked the direction of his 
flight and followed after but found nothing of him. As 
we reached a woods-road near the bar-way we flushed a 
partridge and saw where he went down a short ways 
into the woods on the other side of the road. There 
was a stone wall on the other side of the cover near 
where we had marked the bird down, and I climbed 
over into the open lot on the further side in hopes that 
I would get a shot when the bird flushed. Church and 
Count crossed the road and struck into the maples after 
the game. In a few minutes William sang out, "I've 
got a point!" and a second later I heard the partridge 
get up. I stood watching and soon saw the bird "going 
some" through the tree-tops and nearly out of gun-shot. 
I was afraid if I waited for him to cross an open space 
in front of me that I would lose my chance, so I fired 
through the maples. Mr. Partridge never changed his 
course but kept straight on and would have given me 
a fine shot in the opening, but he had crossed it before 
I could get on him with my second barrel. 

We turned back and looked for more woodcock. 
Count pointed on the edge of the birches and Church 
walked in, flushing a longbill. The cover was so thick 
that a shot was impossible, and we followed up the bird. 
We were more successful this time than with the first 
bird and Count soon came to a stiff point that showed 
the woodcock was right under his nose. Church flushed 
him, and the bird twisted through the trees ahead of me. 



WITH WOODCOCK AND PARTRIDGE 17 

I saw enough of him to get him over the end of my 
gun, and he dropped like a wet rag. Count retrieved 
and we circled to the right. Not a hundred yards away 
we had another point. The dog stood, or rather he 
squatted directly in front of me, his head turned slightly 
to one side. I walked in, and was lucky enough to drop 
woodcock No. 2, with much the same kind of a shot as 
I had on the last one. Having quartered this section 
pretty thoroughly, we swung around through the alder 
run near the lake and then through the last corner of 
the "birch edge" which we had not yet disturbed. 
Church had hardly hied Count into the cover, when 
another dog — a lemon and white pointer — burst out of 
the bushes in front, and stood there looking at us for a 
minute. Then a whistle sounded and the dog darted 
back. An instant later we heard someone say, "There 
used to be woodcock along this edge last year," and the 
pointer came into view again followed by Bob Congdon 
of New London and another hunter. To their greeting 
"What luck!" I answered, "Not much; we flushed a 
partridge over there," as I pointed to the cover we had 
been through and as they moved on I whispered to 
Church, "Let's leave, I think we have cleaned up this 
piece." In confirmation of the truth of this remark I 
know that we didn't hear a shot from the other party, 
though Powell's, our next objective, was only a short 
mile distant. 

On our way we stopped in at Abell's to see if young- 
Elmer would join us, but his hunting license had run 



18 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

out the day before so he could not go. However, I had 
an extra gun in the car and turned it over to Thompson, 
the chauffeur, to see if he could kill a bird. 

Church took Count into the swamp hole opposite 
AbelPs to try and find a partridge, while Thompson and 
I stationed ourselves in the road between the swamp 
hole and Powell's. It was nearly a certainty that if 
Church flushed a bird it would go across the road, and 
I waited in anticipation until finally Count scrambled 
over the wall into the road and Church followed, saying, 
"Nothing doing.' ' 

We spread out going through Powell's, Church taking 
the thick cover with Count, Thompson the side hill on 
his right, and I the edge on his left, Thompson was 
the first one to shoot, once, twice, and then called 

"D n it! Had a fine shot at two partridges but 

missed them. They've gone on up the hill. Are you 
going to chase them up?" 

"We certainly are," cried I, and joined Church and 
the dog in circling over towards Thompson and up that 
side hill. After a short hunt we flushed one of the 
birds and Thompson again missed another shot. The 
partridge flew back again into the run we had quitted 
and we kept after it. When Thompson missed a third 
chance, I fired a barrel at the bird as it rose over the 
tree-tops and headed for the swamp hole where Church 
had drawn a blank. I could not seem to do any better 
than Thompson as the old cock kept straight on and 
Church called out, "I think it's my turn." He went 



WITH WOODCOCK AND PARTRIDGE 19 

back with Count into the thickest of the cover and we 
soon heard a shot. 

"Did yon get him?" I shouted. 

"Gol darn it! No," said he, "I had a good sight 
on him but put the charge into an old black maple. 
He's gone back into Powell's." 

Again we followed up that long suffering partridge 
and at the edge of a clearing Count froze to a point 
near a tuft of grass. We all stood ready for a fine 
shot and Church walked in — to pick up the bird which 
was lying stone dead, right under the dog's nose. Some 
of the charge had got by that black maple. 

On our left lay a long stretch of alders, once a famous 
woodcock ground, and nowadays often a resting place 
for a few of the longbills. After conscientious search, 
however, Count emerged from the lower end of the 
cover without discovering a bird. We continued on our 
way through "Powell's," skirting the edge of a thick 
growth of birch, maple, oak and chestnut timber. 
Church, strolling ahead of me, was spinning yarns 
about his hunting experiences with General Ely, a 
famous old Norwich sportsman, who used to spend 
much of the open season with William. 

"Yes, old Grouse, the General's dog, had the finest 
nose I ever saw. I've never seen such a partridge dog 
before or since. He always seemed to get a point with- 
out flushing — but then, there were birds those days and 
you could get somewhere near them. Grouse started 
in mighty wild. I remember one time the dog was with 



20 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

me for a couple of weeks. I was then shooting for the 
market pretty regular and gave old Grouse a few 
lessons in steadiness that he needed. When the General 
went out with him again he didn't say much, but I 
noticed he kept a careful eye on the dog. A few days 
afterwards he sent me a check for ." 

"Brrrr! brrrr!" and two partridges flushed at the 
edge of the birches in front of Church and started for 
cover. The old Marlin repeater came up like a flash 
and at its sharp " crack' ' a cloud of feathers and a 
thud in the dry leaves marked the end of the first bird, 
a straightaway. Hardly had number one struck the 
ground, when "crack" went the gun again, and this 
time partridge number two, a left quarter er, was 
literally bowled over, the light grey of its breast show- 
ing as it dropped. 

"Gol darn it!" cried Church. "I'm awfully sorry I 
took your shot. I could just as well have slipped out 
of your way. I forgot myself, to tell you the truth, 
and was thinking I was shooting for the market in the 
old days. Of course in those times I had to make every 
shot count. ' ' 

I was standing close to William, who really seemed 
quite conscience-stricken that he had not given me the 
shot, and taking a step towards him I gave him a re- 
sounding slap on the back. "Don't bother about that," 
said I, "you got them both, which is more than I could 
have done. It was worth the hunt to see you do it." 

We now headed for the Packer place, where we had 
located a flock of about fifteen partridges in one of our 



WITH WOODCOCK AND PARTRIDGE 21 

former hunts, but the birds did not seem to be in the 
treetops and brush-heaps where we had found them 
before and we turned our steps towards the clumps of 
birches in the next lot. Count scrambled over the wall, 
began nosing around, and soon struck a scent so hot 
that he had to crawl along on his belly to avoid over- 
running his bird. In a minute he froze to a stiff point 
in some tiny birch sprouts along the path. There was 
no undergrowth and I wondered where the bird was for 
I could see none. Church said he could see him just in 
front of the dog's nose. I stepped in and a nice fat 
woodcock whistled out in the open and went corkscrew- 
ing down the path. Both barrels of my gun and one 
of Thompson's had no effect on "Mr. Thnberdoodle ' ' 
further than to increase the speed and weird twisting 
of his flight. We marked him down a few hundred 
yards away near a big maple, and followed after. As 
I was scrambling over a dilapidated stone wall trying 
to keep various portions thereof from landing on my 
toes, the woodcock flushed again. It rose up straight 
through the treetops, giving Thompson as good a shot 
as the one I had just missed. He failed to take advan- 
tage of his opportunity and we pursued the bird another 
"fly." This time Church had his turn on a wild flush 
but the cock still kept on, this time into a thick swamp 
where we were unable to find him. 

We turned back to the birches, "Tom Gardner's wood- 
cock patch," as Church called it, to look for more and 
it was not long before we had another point. A cock 
flushed ahead of me and headed straight through the 



22 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

myriad birch twigs. I sighted the bird carefully over 
my old Scott, and at the crack of my first shot he shut 
up like a jack-knife. Count retrieved and we tried out 
the rest of the patch. Suddenly the dog stiffened and 
we walked in ahead of him. "Brrrr! brrrr!" and two 
partridges got up on the further edge of the cover and 
went streaking across the open pasture and into the 
woods beyond. Luckily their line of flight led towards 
Abell's and lunch and we chased them up. One we 
were unable to find. The other buzzed out of a treetop 
in front of Church, who fired and downed her just as I 
pulled myself. I say "downed," and so I thought, but 
just before she struck the ground the partridge re- 
covered herself and scaled off into the cedars. Finally, 
Church, who suggested that she might be a little further 
to the left than we had searched, wandered over in that 
direction and nearly stepped on the bird lying dead on 
its back. When he had tucked it away in the back 
pocket of his shooting coat we hurried on to Abell's 
and strengthened ourselves with a sandwich or two be- 
fore we started on the afternoon's hunt. 

Our luncheon inside and our pipes lighted we started 
the old machine up the cross-road that ran near Ford's 
swamp, and hopped out at the bars leading into Ford's 
seven-acre lot. There were no signs of game in the 
alder run, however, and we kept on up a path over the 
side hill beyond. As we dipped down over the ridge, 
Count pointed in the maples at the pathside. The dog's 
nose was held high as if he scented a partridge in a 



WITH WOODCOCK AND PARTRIDGE 23 

clump of cedars beyond, so when a woodcock fluttered 
up in front of me the minute I stepped into the cover 
I promptly missed with both barrels. The old setter 
made another nice point on "Mr. Timberdoodle" after 
his first "fly" and again I tried my luck. I thought I 
would be more careful this time and when the bird 
flushed, waited until I got him over the end of the gun. 
Just as I pressed the trigger the cock decided he would 
change his straightaway course, and swooped to the 
left. Needless to say, my charge of No. 8's came no- 
where near him. We marked him down by a fence 
near the brook that wandered through the gulley at the 
foot of the hill, and started after. On our way Count 
had another point and it was Church's chance this time. 
William walked over to and by the dog when suddenly 
the woodcock twittered up behind him. Church swung 
around like lightning, but the bird dropped down before 
he could hold on him. We went back over the ridge 
and at the dog's point I called to Church, "Now you 
get him. I can't hit a thing." Church flushed the bird 
but did not fire and the longbill gave me a beautiful 
straightaway shot as it twisted up over the treetops. 
We turned back after woodcock No. 1. "How about 
this last one?" you ask. "Did you get him?" 

I didn't think it necessary to say anything more about 
that "darned" bird. I certainly did — not, and he kept 
on out of sight. 

As we trudged down the hillside towards the fence I 
told William that he would have to kill the bird as it 



24 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

was beyond me. The sound of my voice flushed the 
woodcock — a flight bird which my shooting had made 
rather wild — and he got up over forty yards away. 
Church 's old Marlin, however, was good for the distance 
and the cock dropped. 

We crossed the brook and up over the hill beyond, 
then swung back towards the machine. A partridge 
"brrr-ed!" out of a clump of long grass at the edge of 
the cover and I snapped at her ineffectively as she went 
sailing down toward the brook. Church marked where 
the bird dropped down near a fallen chestnut tree and 
we kept on after her. My resolves were most deadly 
as we approached the treetop, and when the old hen 
started to make for the top of the other side hill, I took 
plenty of time and carefully missed her with the first 
barrel. By this time I thought her out of range, and 
fired the second barrel in her general direction just for 
luck. The bird was topping a big oak but at the 
' ' crack" of this last "luck .shot" she came bumping on 
down through the dead leaves as dead as a herring. 

We had one more point as we walked down the brook 
to the road, but the partridge flushed way ahead of us. 
When we got to the machine Thompson told us that the 
bird had just sailed over the road into the next lot. 
That field was posted. However, we thought we had 
our share and called it a day at that. 



A MIXED BAG 



IT was shortly after 8 on a clear, frosty morning 
in late October when I drove the machine containing 

friend Church with " Count, " his old English setter, 
Thompson and the Scribe into Abell 's yard. Abell was 
the gatekeeper at Gardner's Lake, and his son, Elmer, 
usually went "huntin' " with us. This morning, how- 
ever, we were a trifle early for him, as he had not yet 
finished his chores, and he said he would join us after 
lunch. 

Church and I left Thompson chatting with Elmer, and 
whistling Count to heel, started off across the fields. 
There was a swamp hole a short distance from the Abell 
place, where we usually flushed two or three partridges, 
and this was our starting point. 

"I'll go through the swamp," said Church, "and you 
keep along this edge. If I start one and it comes your 
way, get him." A wave of his hand and old Count 
galloped off into the thick growth of alders. Church 
followed him and they were soon out of sight, though I 
could easily keep track of them by the crackling under- 
brush. I followed the edge of the swamp, my gun 
ready for business. "Brrrr! Brrrr!" Two partridges 
jumped up out of an old treetop to my right. ' ' Crack ! ' ' 

23 



26 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

and the old cock bird making for the birches doubled 
up like a bunch of wet feathers. " Crack !" again, but 
the hen partridge, wiser than her mate, contrived to 
place the trunk of a large oak between us. You could 
see the bark fly when I fired. I "coo-ped" to Church 
as a signal that I had been successful and broke my 
gun to reload. "Brrrr!" and partridge number three 
flushed from the same treetop, giving me a fine shot had 
I been ready for him. I marked him down in the 
birches while waiting for Count to retrieve the fallen 
bird. 

We tramped through the rest of the swamp hole with- 
out starting another feather, and then decided to swing- 
back to the right through the birches where the other 
partridges had gone and on to Ford's swamp, where we 
usually found a woodcock or two. Church and Count 
worked through the cover while I strolled down an old 
woods road, hoping to get a shot if a bird flew across. 
We were nearing the spot where I had marked down 
partridge number three, when Church exclaimed, "Look 
out! I've got a point!" An instant later the partridge 
soared up out of the birches and across the road right in 
front of me. I fired, and pulled down the gun without 
trying the second barrel, so sure was I that I had held 
on him. But he still kept going, though a few small 
feathers fluttered down in the road. A short distance 
beyond another partridge flushed ahead of us, and then 
still another. We did not see them until they were out 
of gunshot, but noted that they were all headed for the 
cedars on the wooded ridge to our left. 



A MIXED BAG 27 

As we approached the end of the cover, Church told 
me to stay where I was while he circled around to the 
right with Count and if he flushed a bird it would prob- 
ably come my way. There were no more birds, however, 
in that neck of woods, and all Church started was a nice, 
fat rabbit that went bumping down a path in the briars 
away from me. The chance was too good to lose, and I 
gave him a barrel, causing him to turn a complete 
somersault and fell dead in the path, his hind legs 
twitching convulsively. 

Ford's swamp, our next objective, consisted of a long- 
alder run which overhung both banks of a small brook. 
Church and Count worked their way through the cover 
and left me to take care of the edge. "Count's making 
game," called Church, and sure enough I could glimpse 
the old black-and-white setter cautiously trailing. Sud- 
denly he froze to a stiff point, and Church, with a warn- 
ing "Watch out!" walked in ahead of him. With twit- 
tering wings a woodcock fluttered up through the alders 
and, swinging out of the cover just ahead of me, headed 
for a clump of birches on the side hill. I shot too 
quickly and missed with my first barrel, but closed up 
Mr. Longbill in good shape with my second. Count 
retrieved, and we went on up the run. "I've got an- 
other point," murmured Church, from the thicket, and 
I heard the whistle of another woodcock. I saw nothing 
for a second or two and then the bird showed up over 
the alders, but well on the other side of the run. At 
the sound of my gun he dropped like a stone, at least 



28 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

forty yards away. "That was a nice shot," came from 
Church. "I was afraid you wouldn't get him." 

We hunted over the rest of the run, but found no more 
birds there, though Count kept making game, and there 
was abundant signs of woodcock borings. It looked as 
if a number of flight birds had dropped in during the 
night and left in the morning before we arrived — that 
is, all but the two I had killed. 

We next headed for the cedars on the ridge, where 
we had left the partridges. We knew the chances were 
against our getting good shots in the thick cover, but 
trusted to drive the birds out into good shooting country 
again. Count began to trail almost as soon as we got 
there, and Church followed him under the cedars. In 
a few minutes he "coo-ped" to me softly and whispered, 
"Get into an open place if you can, I've got a point 
here." I stole into a little clearing with cedars on all 
sides, a little to the right of Church and the dog. This 
clearing was not over ten feet across, and if I was to 
get a bird crossing it, it would be a case of snapping. 
I heard Church step in, and with a roar like an express 
train the partridge flashed across the clearing. I swung 
the gun across with her as I fired and had the satisfac- 
tion of hearing her come down with a thump in an old 
pine tree at my left. Count brought her in, and we kept 
on through the cedars, flushing two more partridges 
which got up wild ahead of us and flew across the road 
into Powell's lot. This was posted, but Church said it 
would be all right for us to shoot there as the signs 



A MIXED BAG 29 

were only to keep the Abells out, as they and Powell had 
had some right-of-way dispute. We crossed the road, 
climbing the stone wall and started in. Church was 
slightly ahead of me, and as he came to the edge of a 
small lot covered with low brush and clumps of birches, 
a partridge jumped up from a bush right in front of 
him. He had to shoot quickly or the bird would have 
been out of sight in the cover, but it seemed to me as 
if the "brrr!" of the partridge getting up and the crack 
of Church's gun were almost simultaneous, and the bird 
dropped in a cloud of feathers. 

As it was now noon, and we had left our lunches in 
the machine, we made our way back to Abell's. Elmer 
and Thompson were waiting for us, anxious to see our 
game, and when he had spread them out, Elmer said, 
"I've got something to add to your string." He 
groped under the robe in the back of the machine and 
brought out first one black duck and then another. 
"Thompson and I killed these while you were away," 
he explained. "We saw a bunch of five drop down in 
that pool near the head of the lake. We crawled up to 
them through the long grass and brush, and when we 
got to the edge of the pond discovered that only these 
two were within range. We each shot one, waited until 
the wind blew them ashore and here they are. I think 
you can get a shot at a jacksnipe over in that marsh; 
we started one when we were creeping up on the ducks." 

Accordingly, when we had devoured our sandwiches 
and had smoked a pipeful of tobacco each, Church and 



30 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

I, accompanied by Elmer, and, of course, by old Count, 
made for the piece of marsh north of the lake. We 
spread out and covered the ground thoroughly to see 
what we could find, and soon saw Elmer shoot and 
pick up a jacksnipe. I had the next chance, as I saw a 
grassbird standing in the mud at the edge of a puddle. 
I walked him up, and as he rose dropped him in the 
water. Then I heard the harsh ' l scaipe ! scaipe ! " of a 
jacksnipe as it flushed far ahead. All of a sudden it 
made one of its corkscrew twists and went skimming 
by Church like a bullet. "Bang!" went his gun, and 
again "bang!" but the snipe kept on. I marked him 
down at the edge of some thick brush a short distance 
ahead of me, and started after him. He flushed in 
range and went straight up, high enough to clear the 
bushes, but before he could begin his twisting and 
dodging I fired and landed him. I waited for Count to 
retrieve, as I hated to get into the thick cover where 
the bird dropped, but the dog could not seem to locate 
him, and I finally had to take part in the hunt myself. 
I did find that snipe, though it took me some time to do 
so. He had fallen with his back up and his plumage 
blended exactly with the surroundings. This was the 
last snipe we found. Elmer said he knew where there 
was a covey of quail, so we now followed his guidance. 
He took us across the road and through a big field of 
corn stubble. Count quartered the field in fine style, 
and did his best to find the birds, but they were not 
there. Next we tried a weed patch in the adjoining 
field, and lastly the brush along the edge of these two 



A MIXED BAG 31 

fields, but found them not, and we turned our faces 
towards Abell's and the machine. 

As we were cutting across the mowing lot just across 
the road from Abell's, Count, who was investigating a 
buckwheat patch along the wall, made a point. "That's 
nothing," said Church, "just some of those small 
birds," and we walked on. Thompson, however, who 
had joined us when we came back from our snipe hunt, 
turned and went over to the old dog. "Whirr! whirr! 
whirr!" and some fifteen fat quail shot away in front 
of him toward the swamp hole where I had killed my 
first partridge in the morning. Thompson fired twice 
and got one bird, a left quarterer that was making for 
the corn stubble we had just crossed. "Darn the luck!" 
I growled, "that's what comes of not believing in your 
dog. We would have killed three or four of these birds 
if we had attended to business. Let's hunt them up." 
Soon Elmer stepped on a brush heap and the whole 
covey flushed again. The cover was too thick for a 
shot, but we marked down the scattered birds and pre- 
pared to hunt them up one by one. Elmer flushed the 
first bird at the edge of the bog but missed him. The 
quail whizzed by Church like a bullet, but stopped right 
there when he fired. Shortly afterward Count made a 
point and Church called us up for a shot. However, 
the bird chose to go through the brush where Church 
stood instead of the safer way by us, and he joined the 
other in the pocket of Church's coat. Count pointed 
again, and this time a nice little cock quail flew my way. 



32 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

He went so fast that he outdistanced my first charge, 
but the second overtook him, and he came down dead. 

By this time the sun had gone down, and it was get- 
ting too dark to shoot, so we made for home. 

At Abell's, before starting the machine, we took stock 
of our game, and a pretty bunch of birds it was for this 
vicinity — three partridges, two woodcock, four quail, 
two jacksnipe, two black ducks, one grassbird and one 
cottontail. This was our " Mixed Bag." 



RAIL SHOOTING ON CONNECTICUT 
RIVER 



SPORTSMEN who have never tried rail shooting 
cannot realize the fascination the sport holds for 
one who has experienced it. In the first place in 
September there is for the New Englander little else in 
the line of feathered game on which he can test his skill 
unless it be on shore birds. The rail are still fairly 
numerous, their haunts are easily reached from the 
metropolis, and their pursuit is not accompanied by the 
hardships and privations incident to wildfowling, for 
instance. In short, about all one has to do is to keep 
his balance on a three-legged stool in a flat-bottomed 
boat and shoot the rail as they flutter away in front of 
him while the "pusher" behind does all the work. 

Essex and Deep River on the west bank of the Con- 
necticut River and Brockway's on the east are the chief 
fitting-out points for such famous grounds as Eustasia 
Island, Hudson's Hole, Salmon River and last but not 
least, Selden's Cove. In the huge wild-oat fields of the 
"Cove" I have counted at a tide over thirty boats, and 
the nearlv continuous shooting sounded like some mimic 



34 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

warfare. At one time there was no limit and the rail 
were literally massacred, but now with a limit set, the 
birds have a chance to hold out for our sons to slaughter 
though even that chance is a slim one. 

My first experience was one never to be forgotten. 
It was pouring in torrents when I arose at 6 A. M. and 
did not let up until after 7 when I started off with the 
old red runabout to pick up Willis Austin, my shooting 
companion. The sun was shining as we headed for 
Herb Banning 's house at Brockway's Landing and I 
didn't think it worth while to go out of my way to the 
garage to get a set of tire chains. Over near Hamburg 
we took a wrong turn and lost our way among some of 
the most precipitous hills it has ever been my fate to 
see. The old car had gravity feed and the grades were 
so steep she wouldn't feed into the carburetor. We 
nursed her over one mountain, but arriving in the hol- 
low on the further side, we discovered that getting up 
the next hill was going to be worse than climbing the 
side of a house. I set the old car at it backwards and 
she climbed up it till she came to a right-angled muddy 
curve in the middle of the grade. Here the wheels 
spun uselessly around and around in a hail of red mud 
till I took pity on the machine and dropped back to the 
foot of the hill. On the second trial I succeeded no 
better than the first. The third time I had gained 
about two feet on my other marks when I was greeted 
by a crack under the car, something seemed to give way 
and I shot back to the foot of the hill so fast that I 






RAIL SHOOTING ON CONNECTICUT RIVER 35 

narrowly missed landing in the gutter. The propeller 
shaft had dropped out. As it was nearing 11 when the 
tide would be high enough for shooting, Willis and I 
left Thompson, the chauffeur, with the car and "hoofed" 
the remaining mile and half over to Banning 's. There 
we left word to send a yoke of oxen back for the "in- 
valid" while we accompanied Herb to the dock, boarded 
his launch and, towing a couple of shoving skiffs astern, 
set off for Selden's Cove. 

Arriving at the cove, Willis and Banning dropped into 
one skiff while I joined "Bed-beard," Banning's pusher, 
in the other. Soon a small brown bird with long droop- 
ing legs fluttered off over the top of the tall oats ahead 
of me. "Mark!" cried Bed-Beard and I missed the 
rail. This performance was repeated some five times 
until Bed-beard, who had had a long pull at my flask, 
exclaimed, "You gotta kill 'em better 'n that or Ban- 
ning '11 have us beat a mile. Take it a bit more slow 
an' careful." The next rail gave me an easy straight- 
away and I literally blew him to pieces, his head, wings 
and legs being all that was left of him. I had now mas- 
tered the knack of killing the feeble flying birds and 
missed only three more before we got back to the launch. 
Willis and Banning were waiting for us with the limit 
of thirty-five rail which Willis bagged with forty-one 
shells. Bed-beard and I had eighteen and I had used 
twenty-eight shells. 

My next rail shoot came late in the season a few years 
later. Willis and I had been unable to get away earlier 



36 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

and anticipated a slim shoot when we found Herb and 
his partner on the dock at Deep Eiver. Banning, as 
usual, piloted Willis and headed for Seidell's Cove, while 
Red-beard and I started for the oat fields that sur- 
round Eustasia Island. I had brought with me for good 
luck a bottle of cherry whisky and divided its contents 
between the two pushers before we left the wharf. It 
did not seem to have much effect on their leathern 
throats and hard heads. I know Banning said to me as 
we were leaving after the shoot, "I don't think much 
of that stuff of yours — ain't got no kick to it. Why 
didn't yer bring some real whisky?" 

At Eustasia Island I killed just four rail although 
Red-beard kept pounding down the oats with his pole 
in attempting to flush the skulkers. The trouble was 
with the tide which was poor and enabled the rail to 
run ashore before us without rising. I knew the birds 
were there as several times when Red-beard thrashed 
about in the cover with his pole they began to squeak, 
reminding me for all the world of a litter of puppies 
whose dam had deserted them. 

Hudson's Hole was our second destination but there 
the same conditions prevailed. Three more rail were 
added to my score with two shots missed so you can see 
that the fun could hardly be called "fast and furious." 
We rallied several bunches of black ducks returning 
along the shore of Eustasia Island, but none within gun- 
shot. Willis and Banning soon joined us at the Deep 



RAIL SHOOTING ON CONNECTICUT RIVER 37 

River dock. They had apparently happened upon a 
small flight of rail at Selden's as Willis had killed 
thirty-four and lost thirteen cripples with fifty shells. 

On my next two rail shoots Banning did my "push- 
ing" and his new man, "Indian Joe," took care of 
Thompson. 

As we were leaving "Ustasy" Island, as "Herb" 
called it, for Selden's Cove after our first shoot I had 
a rather novel experience. Three rail rose ahead of 
us, two straightaways and one left quarterer. I killed 
the two straightaways, one with each barrel, and the 
left quarterer alighted on the shore of the island. Bar- 
ning jumped out of the skiff and flushed the bird, who 
was wise enough to direct his flight precisely in line 
with Herb's sturdy form. That Banning realized his 
position was proven to me by his throwing himself flat 
on his face, while calling to me to "Shoot him!" Need- 
less to say, I landed Mr. Rail. 

At Selden's Cove that day I had my first encounter 
with a Connecticut game warden. A short, stout old 
fellow with a very red face and a white moutache show- 
ing under his old straw hat was sitting at the mouth of 
the Cove as Banning and I approached. He sung out 
to me for my .shooting license which luckily I was able 
to produce for his benefit from the depths of my shoot- 
ing coat pocket. The old boy grunted and jotted down 
the license number in his note-book. It was very plain 
to be seen that he was disappointed at not catching 
me "with the goods on." 



38 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

When we got back to Brockway's and were munching 
our lunch at the dock Banning spun a few of his most 
choice shooting yarns. I wish I could remeber them all 
and do justice to his skill as a "raconteur." Certain 
bits still linger in my memory; particularly about the 
old red fox that ' ' Bugle ' ' had trailed for five hours and 
two of the boys had peppered in vain with BB's. At 
last he came by Herb, who was squatting down behind 
an old stone wall, with a cut shell in the left barrel of 
his gun in case of a long shot. "TV old vixen was 
right over on th' far side of that plain field but th' cut 
shell did the trick. She turned a somersault and fell 
over stone dead. I paced off to where she lay — just 
seventeen rod." 

There was another story that Herb told about a 
fellow named Bishop who went rail shooting with him 
one day. Bishop, it seems, had a beautiful Purdey gun 
and all the other impedimenta necessary to quality as a 
Nimrod, including a high opinion of his own prowess. 
However, his reputation alone wouldn't kill rail, and 
after shooting eighty-one shots and downing sixteen 
birds, he made Banning a present of his gun and made 
tracks for the metropolis. 

My last shoot with Banning is memorable because my 
bag contained one Virginia rail. Herb said they are not 
rare in this vicinity, but it was the first one I had e\er 
seen. I didn't notice anything particularly distinctive 
about it when the bird rose except its size, which I re- 
marked to Banning, but he recognized it at once and 
said it was a "Virginia" before he started to retrieve it. 



RAIL SHOOTING ON CONNECTICUT RIVER 39 

Other interesting incidents were the distant view of 
a large clapper rail winging its way far out of our 
neighborhood, and my meeting with another game war- 
den, this time old man Brockway of Brockway's Land- 
ing. He was certainly a genial soul and one who appre- 
ciated the .superior boquet of ' ' Old Hermitage Whisky. ' ' 
I really think that Herb Banning, big-hearted fellow 
that he is, was jealous that day of his old neighbor's 
capacity and studied proximity to that bottle. 



DUCK AND PLOVER SHOOTING: IN THE 
PACIFIC NORTHWEST 



WHEN Maxwell invited me to accompany him on 
a ducking- trip to the LaConner Flats, I didn't 
hesitate long about accepting; just long enough 
to find out that the "Chief" was willing to let me go 
from Friday evening until Monday. Accordingly we 
foregathered aboard the old stern- wheeler, the "Grey- 
hound," when she cast loose from her Seattle dock and 
turned her nose towards Anacortes at 10 o'clock that 
Friday evening. Maxwell had his Parker, I had my old 
Scott, and we took along a hundred shells each, loaded 
with three and one-quarter drams of Dupont and an 
ounce and one-eighth of No. 6 shot. Needless to say, 
we were well equipped with gum-boots, shooting coats, 
sweaters, etc. 

We turned in early and slept soundly till we were 
aroused at 2 A. M. by the boat bumping into the cannery 
dock at Anacortes. We hustled into our clothes, then 
gathered up our belongings and went ashore. It was 
pitch dark, and we stumbled along over the fish nets 
stretched out on the wharf, until Maxwell produced a 
pocket flashlight and led the way to the outskirts of 

40 



SHOOTING IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST 41 

the town. Under a smoky street-lamp a weather-beaten 
sign "Rasterant" caught my eye, and rousing the pro- 
prietor, a fat, greasy-looking "Dago" from his snooze, 
Maxwell and I stocked up with a few pounds of fried 
ham topped off with some two dozen eggs. We also 
sampled a tasteless but smoking-hot brown liquid that 
the proprietor called "coffee." My partner, Maxwell, 
had an appointment in town at 9 o'clock, and we passed 
the time away sitting in the deserted lobby of the local 
hotel, burning tobacco, swapping yarns and dozing — 
principally dozing. At 7 o'clock, when the hotel dining- 
room opened, we surrounded a second breakfast, and 
afterwards Maxwell hustled away to finish his business, 
while I strolled around to the livery stable and corralled 
a rig to transport us to the marsh. 

Ten o'clock saw us well under way for the shooting 
grounds eight miles distant from Anacortes. The road 
was rough, the horses slow and the wagon springless, 
while the back seat was held down by a single small 
screw and continually threatened to hop out into the 
ditch with its occupants. I was much relieved when 
along towards noon we pulled up at the small farm 
house where we were to spend the night. Maxwell and 
I donned our shooting outfits, filled our pockets with 
shells and, putting our guns together, started off to find 
George Lemon, our guide. A short walk through the 
marsh brought us to the cabin alongside the creek 
where Maxwell said George and his brother lived. 
Nets in profusion and two or three fishing boats that 



42 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

were moored to the rough landing were proof that the 
Lemon boys' principal occupation was salmon fishing. 
Prolonged knocking at the cabin door finally brought 
forth a hoarse "Shut up!" a window banged open and 
a tousled head of light hair surmounting a pair of 
sleepy blue eyes and a tawny moustache emerged. This 
was George. 

"Naw, I won't go shooting. I gotta sleep. Me and 
Bill just got in from catching ' silvers ' and we're clean 
done up," was his welcome. 

Maxwell was prepared for the emergency. Eeaching 
into his hip pocket he brought out a quart flask. The 
window immediately crashed down, and a second later 
George stood in his open doorway asking us to come 
in and "set down" while he pulled his boots on. That 
task accomplished and a fair share of the contents of 
Maxwell's flask stowed under his belt, Lemon was ready 
to accompany us. We bailed out the water in a small 
skiff lying at the dock, stowed some twenty-five mallard 
decoys in the stern and hopped in. George took his 
place at the oars and we went sliding down the creek 
with the ebb tide. 

It was soft and calm, a regular "blue-bird day," and 
though it had been rather foggy in the early morning, 
the mist was rapidly rolling away before the warm rays 
of the sun. The tide was dead low, leaving bare miles 
of mud flats and crisscrossed by numerous sloughs and 
creeks. Beyond the flats the water was like glass and 
there rested acres upon acres of ducks. Occasionally a 



SHOOTING IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST 43 

small bunch would get up in front of us and skim away 
to join the crowd. To my mind all signs pointed to a 
pretty slim shoot. I turned to George and said, "What 
are the chances ?" 

"Nawthin' doin' till evenin' when the tide comes in," 
was his answer. "Then I'll put yer on the sou 'west 
p'int at the mouth of ther main slough and give yer a 
chance to kill a few. " 

A flock of seven large ducks from the marsh flew 
right over our boat. They were not very high up and 
Maxwell gave them a barrel. He was sorry afterwards 
that he hadn't given them a second, as one of them 
closed up and splashed dead in the water ahead of us. 
We retrieved the bird, a fat mallard, and as we had now 
come to the mouth of the creek, turned to the right and 
set off along the edge of the flats. We headed up the 
first slough, hoping to jump a duck or two within range, 
but found none. Maxwell, however, spied a Wilson 
snipe feeding near a small pond on the flats, and had 
us set him ashore. He thought he might pick up a few 
birds and then meet us at the next waterway. I went 
on up the slough with George. It was not long before 
I heard the crack of Maxwell's gun, but gave it little 
attention as I saw something of interest myself. A 
flock of nine plover, "beetleheads," I determined, were 
feeding on the further bank of the stream. I told 
George to paddle quietly by along the further bank of 
the slough and then drift down close to them with the 
tide. As we came in gunshot I stood up and flushed 



44 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

the birds, giving them both barrels as they rose. Four 
fell — three dead on the mud and one with a broken 
wing in the water. George rowed after the cripple 
while I jumped ashore and picked up the others. There 
I found that they were not "beetleheads" but golden 
plover. 

I judged that we had run into a flight of these birds 
as the flats were teeming with them in flocks containing 
anywhere from six or eight to over a hundred. It was 
impossible to get within gunshot on foot as I found out 
soon and our plan of drifting with the tide by the 
numerous bunches seemed the only successful way and 
with the big flocks even this failed. I shot on and on 
with varying success — out of one bunch I remember I 
dropped nine with both barrels, while out of another I 
killed only one, and out of a third I am ashamed to say 
I got none. Meanwhile we had been gradually working 
our way along the edge of the flats to the next slough 
where we met Maxwell. He had five "jack" or Wilson 
snipe and nine plover and wanted to know what I had 
been banging away at. My forty-odd birds in the bottom 
of the skiff was a pretty good answer and made him 
regret that he had ever left us. 

The tide had turned and was gradually covering the 
flats and as the water had come up to the edge of the 
marsh at the point where we intended to set out, George 
rowed us across the main slough and put us ashore to 
repair the old blind while he tied out the stool. Then 
he hid the skiff in a small creek back of us and we sat 
and waited for the evening flight to begin. 



SHOOTING IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST 45 

A huge raft of ducks, principally teal, were floating 
on the placid water in front of our point, and were 
gradually drifting toward us. They came so near we 
could see that many of them were asleep with their 
heads under their wings, while a few were feeding on 
the drift and the rest were noisily discussing the affairs 
of the nation. But before they were within gunshot a 
cross current sent them down into the little bay on our 
right and we didn't get the shot we had anticipated. 
We thought of creeping around through the marsh grass 
to the head of the bay but then decided it was not 
worth while for a "pot shot" and that we might lose 
more than we would gain. A half hour later the roar 
of two heavy loads sounded on our ears and the tumult 
as the raft got up showed that other hunters had been 
watching. We found out later that the gunner killed 
fourteen teal and a mallard with his two barrels. 

It was not long before we had a chance ourselves. 
Two big ducks streaked in from outside. We saw they 
were mallards as they came nearer. They headed for 
our decoys, but kept on straight over us. I could see 
the light glisten on the glossy green head of the drake, 
which was on my side. 

"Are you ready!" whispered Maxwell. 

"Yes," said I. 

"Then let them have it." 

"Bang!" and the head of my drake snapped back as 
he came down with a resounding splash in the water in 
front of the blind. "Crack" and his mate wilted at 



46 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Maxwell's shot and thudded down on the grass behind 
us. 

Then a bunch of greenwings hissed by over the 
decoys from the right and our four barrels dropped 
three. Another wisp of teal and five more joined our 
<jount. 

The fun was fast and furious while it lasted but it 
was rapidly growing dark. Soon it became a matter 
of waiting for the whistle of hurrying wings from dark 
shadows overhead, for the tongues of red flame darting 
up in the air, for the loud "crash" of reports and the 
echoes from the dusky marsh and sometimes for the 
bump of a heavy body on the ground or a splash in the 
water showing we had scored. More often we would 
listen in vain and then wait for the next chance. 

At last the sky grew dark and we could no longer 
discern the ducks against it. We signaled to George, 
picked up our dead and the decoys and made for the 
farm house where we were to spend the night. 

Once outside a good hot supper, we lighted our pipes 
and sat back before a blazing open fire and talked over 
our past experiences, then hurried to bed and a few 
hours of dreamless sleep. The thunderous knocking on 
our door and the hoarse "Four o'clock, gents!" seemed 
all too soon. We fell out of bed, lighted the lamp and 
tumbled into our clothes. Downstairs we attacked a 
breakfast of coffee, bacon and eggs, and then tramped 
off in the starlight for George's place. We found that 
Bill, his brother, was ready for us and soon rowed us 



SHOOTING IN PACIFIC NORTHWEST 47 

back to the stand we had occupied the night before. 
The decoys were out in jiffy and we waited for daylight. 

A whistle of wings, the roar of Maxwell's gun and 
the splash of a falling body showed that the work was 
on. Teal began streaming over our decoys from both 
sides with occasionally a small bunch of mallards. They 
came in flurries so that at times we seemed to shoot 
nearly continuously, then perhaps for half an hour we 
would not fire again. As the sun rose the tide began 
to drop and the shots to come at longer intervals. A 
lone mallard flew by, well up in the air, and in my judg- 
ment out of range. Maxwell thought differently, tried 
him with his choked barrel and to my amazement picked 
the duck out of the air as dead as a herring. 

' 'I tell you, Bigelow," cried he, " there's nothing like 
a Parker gun for killing them ! ' ' 

At this instant three teal loomed up, skimming over 
the water towards the decoys from Ms side of the 
stand. Maxwell had not had time to reload, and could 
only try one shot. Something must have happened to 
the Parker, as all three birds still kept on. They were 
flying in single file but it seemed to me that the second 
duck was gaining on the first one. At any rate, I was 
lucky enough to cut them both down with my first 
barrel and kill number three with my second. The 
temptation was too great to resist and I could not help 
asking, " Don't you think the old Scott is in the same 
class with the Parker, Maxwell?" He could not do 
otherwise but agree. 



48 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

We shot two or three ducks after this before the tide 
left our decoys resting on the flats, and then we took 
up. We had a few shells left out of our original two 
hundred and cruised along the banks of the main slough 
to use them up on the plover. These birds were much 
wilder than the day before, but we added over a score 
to our count. At 11 o'clock, as our shells had run out, 
we turned our faces toward the landing, Anacortes and 
Seattle. Our bag, I was told, was not extraordinary for 
that locality, but at home it would seem almost too big. 
I know that the fifty-four ducks — forty teal and fourteen 
mallards — and the eighty golden plover were all that 
Maxwell and I cared to lug through the streets of 
Seattle the following morning. 



ON THE HEADWATERS OF THE 
TUOLUMNE 



AFTER leaving college I started in to learn the 
mining business at the "Mary Harrison" mine, 
Coulterville, Mariposa County, California. Our 
chief clerk, Kidder, was an enthusiastic sportsman and 
when at Thanksgiving time he had to go back in the 
hills to look over some ditches in connection with a 
water-power scheme, he took along his rifle and asked 
me to come with him as there was a chance to kill a 
deer. 

It was forty miles from Coulterville to " Crocker 's," 
where we intended to "put up," and we made an early 
start. The mine manager had loaned us a pair of green 
but sturdy horses to pull the buggy over the narrow, 
muddy trail, the day was fair, the air crisp and snappy 
and we were well supplied with pipes, cigars and 
tobacco. The only person we met on the road was Bill 
Fiske, the horse-trader, a typical "old timer." We 
stopped for lunch at Hamilton's, and the old man told 
us that his "bye Garge" had killed a nice buck two 
days before. I know that the venison steak went to the 
right spot. 

49 



50 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

In the afternoon our outfit scared up one flock of the 
California valley quail and a little later three flocks of 
the mountain variety. Perhaps I didn't hanker for my 
old Scott. About 3 o'clock we arrived at the site of the 
proposed hydro-electric plant, a deep canon eroded by 
the Tuolumne River, which flowed through its depths. 
It was the end of a series of ditches which brought the 
water from the head of the river, a distance of eight 
or ten miles, to fall over twelve hundred feet at the 
bottom of the gorge. We had many distant glimpses 
of the river as we continued our journey. In '49, 
which was considerably before our time, the Tuolumne 
was one of the famous deposits of placer gold, and 
there is mighty little of its auriferous sand that has 
not been panned again and again. 

Mrs. Crocker welcomed our arrival and her cooking 
tasted like "back home" as she was a "down Easter" 
from Maine. She got hold of me after supper and did 
not quit until she had pumped me dry as a bone about 
everything that had happened in New England during 
the past ten years. Her's was a lonely life, only two 
neighbors — one of those a "Greaser" family — within 
ten miles, but she was as bright as a button and looked 
as if she had not experienced a day's sickness in her 
forty-odd years. She said the summer time was a little 
more lively as a good many parties going into the 
Yosemite put up at her place. 

The following morning we hired a rig so as to give 
our steeds a rest before the long home grind. It was 



ON THE HEADWATERS OF THE TUOLUMNE 51 

a raw, cold day and the gathering clouds threatened 
rain. Our route led over a rough woods-road to the 
head of the ditch and our progress was necessarily slow 
on account of the numerous stumps and logs that beset 
our path. Kidder called my attention to some tall 
brush that looked like our New England hazel brush. 
He said the deer were very fond of the leaves and buds 
and that it was commonly known as "deer brush." As 
we passed a large thicket of the brush we heard a great 
sound of breaking twigs and rustling branches and a 
minute later a fat doe bounded across the trail. She 
was followed by a little spotted fawn that became con- 
fused and galloped along a short way beside us. When 
in connection with this the men working on the ditch 
said that the deer were very numerous, we decided after 
lunch to walk back and sent one of the repair crew with 
the rig some distance in advance. The rain that had 
been threatening all day started to come down in tor- 
rents and we were soon throughly drenched. Kidder 
had given me his 30-30 Winchester and said, "If you 
see a deer, make sure it's a buck and then give it to 
him. ,, 

We were more than half way to Crocker's and were 
walking along the north branch of the Tuolumne not 
far from the ford when, as we were passing a clump of 
the "deer brush,' ' Kidder nudged my elbow. "Look!" 
said he, and pointed to my left. After a short scrutiny 
I saw what I took to be the hind quarters of a deer that 
seemed to be standing broadside to me, and a short dis- 
tance ahead, his horns projecting over the brush. I 



52 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

took careful aim at the hip and pressed the trigger. 
My! what a rumpus ensued. The deer crashed into the 
bushes a short way and was still, while from all sides 
came the sounds of others escaping. We hurried after 
my victim to cut his throat and had just reached him, 
when another buck with a much finer head got up within 
thirty steps and started off. I drew a bead on his lord- 
ship and pulled. " Click !" a missfire, and when finally 
I did shoot it was at a flying grey streak which, needless 
to state, I missed. Kidder dressed the deer and we then 
started to drag him out. How we did it I don't know 
for though Kidder said it was only three miles I am 
sure it was all of six. We were certainly a tired pair 
when we reached Mrs. Crocker's hospitable door but 
pretty well satisfied at that. The deer was hung up 
back of the barn and we sat down with zest to do justice 
to the "vittles." 

Thursday was Thanksgiving day and we tramped 
around through the woods primarily to whet our appe- 
tites in working order for the old-fashioned dinner. 
We saw no deer although we saw the fresh tracks of a 
buck and a doe not over a half-mile from the house. 
Near the river we ran across the huge track of a grizzly 
bear and followed it a mile or more. The prints did 
not look very fresh and when we discovered that they 
led over Bald Mountain we left the track and headed 
for the house. 



ON THE HEADWATERS OF THE TUOLUMNE 53 

Thanksgiving dinner was .served at 2 o'clock and what 
a gorge! I didn't expect to be able to ever leave the 
table. It was a regular New England feast, lacking 
only the turkey, but this void was so well taken up by 
roast chicken and the superabundance of pies "such as 
mother used to make" that we never missed the noble 
bird at all. 

Friday morning we took the back trail for Coulter- 
ville though it was with sincere regret that we bid good- 
by to "Crocker's. Old man Hamilton was waiting for 
us when we got to his place for lunch and wanted to 
know what luck we had had with the deer. He seemed 
genuinely pleased when we showed him our head. But 
it was time to be stirring if we hoped to reach Coulter- 
ville before dark and we set out for our destination, 
which we reached without further incident. 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 



TWO of my friends, the "Dude" and Tobin, one 
April day persuaded me to try bait fishing for 
trout in the brooks of New London and adjacent 
counties. I soon became as ardent a fisherman as either 
of my instructors, and we made together many excur- 
sions, successful and otherwise. Certain of these trips 
deserve special mention, which explains this narrative. 

At "Jim Dixon's." 

It was after 6 A. M. when I shut off the motor at 
Jim Dixon's or Campbell's Mills, which consisted of 
Dixon's house, two other cottages and the sawmill that 
Jim ran. Tobin took us in and introduced us to Dixon, 
as fine a sportsman as you ever met, who induced us 
to try an egg-nog (cider, eggs and sugar beaten up 
together) for luck, and said we could fish his brook on 
condition only that we lunched with him that noon. 

A stretch of this brook flowed out of the mill-pond 
near Dixon's house and there we started in, Tobin 
standing on the flashboard of the mill-dam and dropping 
his line in the pool beneath, the Scribe fishing under the 
bridge where the road crossed the brook, and the 
"Dude" wading into the stream near the sawmill and 

54 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 55 

floating his bait down into a dark pool where a big 
boulder checked the current. Dixon, himself, tried to 
pilot me, and we did our best to find a trout under that 
old bridge, but if he was there he didn't feel hungry 
for he left us severely alone. 

Tobin, however, had hardly dropped his line over the 
dam before he had a strike which bent the tip of his 
rod and caused the taut line to cut through the water 
like a knife. After a short .struggle he landed a nice, 
fat trout just long enough to keep, and dropped his line 
in again. A second strike, and he quickly landed the 
mate of his first fish. 

In the meantime I had fished several pools below the 
bridge and the "Dude" had fished to the end of the 
swift water but nary a trout, so we joined Tobin and 
walked over to where an upper stretch of the brook ran 
into the pond. Here the "Dude" caught his first fish, a 
small one, and Tobin lost a beauty that tied his line up 
in a pile of brush and broke away. I, as usual, got 
nothing but experience and spent most of my time re- 
newing the hooks lost in the numerous snags. 

Dixon now harnessed up his old grey mare and drove 
us over to the upper part of Mount Misery Brook. We 
decided that the man who gave the brook its name did 
so after driving out there over the rocks, stumps and 
ruts that formed the road. It was a deep, narrow and 
swift-running brook which flowed out of a large pond 
and under a heap of rotten lumber, all that remained 
of an old sawmill. There were only a few hundred feet 



56 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

of this brook that we could fish from the bank as it 
soon widened out into a small river too deep to wade, 
but Dixon showed us a tiny stream nearby, tributary to 
the Mount Misery Brook, and said it was full of small 
trout. So there was work enough ahead of us to last 
till lunch time. 

The "Dude" was high man at the Mount Misery 
Brook — Tobin and I drew blanks. The former sat down 
on an old log and worked his line into the few yards of 
black water that showed among the debris of the old 
mill. It was not long before he had a strike and I felt 
sure he would be tied up on one of the many snags 
that infested this part of the brook, but he was too old a 
hand to be caught that way and soon landed a small 
trout, carefully taking in the slack with his left hand 
and paying no attention to the reel. He caught two 
more without changing his position, one of which 
weighed over half a pound, and did not get snagged 
once. I know that if I had been trying to fish the same 
place I would have lost a hook before I could wet my 
line. 

The next place on the program was the small tribu- 
tary brook. This we divided into three sections and 
agreed to meet Dixon at a certain bridge in about two 
hours — lunch time. It was a case of wading the brook 
and I made a good beginning by slipping on a moss- 
covered stone and falling prone on my back in the 
middle of the stream. I was good and wet and after- 
wards chose the sunniest places I could find to fish in. 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 57 

Perhaps this was the reason that I arrived at the bridge 
without a fish in my creel, while the "Dude" was there 
with five little fellows and Tobin soon hove in view with 
six more. "We then headed the old mare for Dixon's 
and lunch. 

Mrs. Dixon was ready for us with a huge meal of 
which the "Dude" and Tobin partook so bountifully 
that they were incapacitated for fishing purposes for at 
least two hours. I took care of my share of the good 
food but when the others reached for a second piece of 
apple pie, I slipped out of the door, grabbed my rod 
and made for the dam where Tobin had caught his first 
two fish that morning. I waded cautiously out on the 
flashboard and dropped my line in the pool below the 
fall. A baby trout, some three inches long, took the 
bait, but dropped off half-way up the dam. Loud cheers 
from Dixon's door where stood Dixon himself, Tobin 
and the "Dude" greeted this performance. I baited my 
hook with a nice, fat night-crawler and dropped in 
again. A small trout, which looked like a minnow but 
later proved to be six inches, flashed out of the water 
on the end of my line and landed safely on the bank of 
the mill-pond above the dam. The cheering throng 
from Dixon's swept down on me as I took the trout off 
the hook and escorted me with my prize in triumph to 
our car which stood in Jim's yard. There we shook 
hands with our good hosts, cranked the motor, and got 
under way for Pratt's meadow. 



58 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Here we found a deep, slow-running brook where the 
"Dude" and Tobin each caught a quarter-pound trout. 
The stream was fringed with alders and I caught more 
of them than I did trout — but what did that matter, I 
had caught one trout on my first day — "Sufficiency." 

It started to rain on our way home and as we passed 
a tiny pond faintly visible through the heavy brush 
alongside the road, Tobin exclaimed, "Whoa! There's 
the spring-hole where Oscar Palmer caught his nice 
string just such a day as this." I sat in the car while 
Tobin and the "Dude" started for the pond. There 
was an outlet concealed by blackberry bushes and the 
overhanging boughs of a clump of white birches. Here 
a little rivulet tumbled out of the pond into a small, 
black pool which looked so tempting to Tobin that he 
worked the tip of his rod through the brush and dropped 
his line in to see what was doing. A swirl in the dark 
water and the first big fish of the day seized his bait. 
To and fro, back and forth across the pool swished the 
trout, and when he ceased his struggles, Tobin, keeping 
a steady strain on the line with his left hand, parted the 
brush with his right, and tried thus to land his fish. 
Unhappily his line caught on a root, the trout made a 
final lunge and broke away. Tobin was sure he weighed 
over a pound. After waiting a few minutes he dropped 
his line in the pool a second time and again lost the big 
fish on a snag. A third time brought better results for 
after a sharp struggle Tobin landed a nice trout that 
weighed a little over three-quarters of a pound when we 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 59 

got home. The big fellow, however, had had struggle 
enough for one day and would not take hold again. 

In the meantime the "Dude" had been trying his 
luck in the pond. He had waded out through the muddy 
bottom up to his waist and after waiting a few minutes 
for the water to clear, had started casting out in the 
pond as far as he could. After making a cast, he would 
reel the bait slowly towards him, giving it plenty of 
time to settle well in the water, and by this practice 
he succeeded in making fast to a nice three-quarter 
pounder. It was the prettiest sight of the day — that 
animated line cutting back and forth through the still 
surface of the pond, till it brought up on the stony bank 
with the flopping beauty. The back of this last trout 
was nearly black and the red spots on his side were 
very bright. I thought I might do likewise and joined 
the "Dude" in the pond but I must have been a hoodoo, 
for neither of us had another strike and the "Dude's" 
fish was the last trout caught that day. 

At "Bob Rood's." 

It was before daybreak that early spring morning 
when we knocked at the door of Bob Rood's little white 
cottage to ask permission to fish the stream. A gruff 

voice answered Tobin's knock with "Who in h l's 

there!" 

At Tobin's answer the voice said, "Come right in," 
and turning the handle we walked into the kitchen where 



60 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

an oil lamp burned dimly. The half-open door into 
the next room gave us a glimpse of the old four-poster 
bed where Bob and his wife were still reposing. "When 
we appeared, however, Bob placed his foot against his 
wife's back and pushed her out of bed, growling out, 
"Hustle, Mary, and mix these gentlemen an egg-nog.' ' 
Mary, without adding to her raiment, mixed the concoc- 
tion — eggs beated up with cider — and we made it our 
duty to consume a goodly quantity, though I must con- 
fess that it hardly hit the right spot at 4 A. M. In the 
meantime, Bob, himself, slid out of bed and stood before 
us. He was a charcoal burner and that part of his 
person exposed by his short and very dirty night-shirt 
gave ocular proof that he turned out the genuine article. 

"Of course you can fish the brook," he said, "but 
wait till I get you some decent bait." Then, clad only 
in his night-shirt, he opened the door, hobbled — for he 
was crippled by rheumatism — to the cow-barn, and 
grasping a pitchfork walked about in the cow-yard, until 
he had unearthed a quantity of nice fat worms. "Now 
there," said he, "is some bait that is all right — go try 
your luck. ' ' 

Bob Bood's Brook is a narrow but deep and swift- 
flowing stream which finds its source in a small mill- 
pond a quarter of a mile from Bob's house. From there 
it gurgles merrily down its winding channel some four 
miles, alternately through woods and meadows, until it 
empties into Pachaug Pond. We fished first in the long 
rolling meadow in front of Bob's door but our utmost 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 6T 

efforts resulted in only two small trout, one each for 
the "Dude" and Tobin. Next we waded the stream 
through the woods nearby, as the brush was too thick 
to allow fishing from the banks. Nothing was added to 
our score until we struck into a second meadow where 
the brook rippled cheerily on between two rows of 
alders. I landed one small fish but threw him back as 
he was under size. 

A small tributary joined the main stream a short dis- 
tance from the edge of the woods, and Tobin and I 
worked our way through the brush along this smaller 
brook until we reached a tiny waterfall thirty feet from 
the back door of a large white farm house. I crept up 
to the edge of the pool below the fall, and standing 
back of a huge oak tree, dropped my line in the water. 
Tobin tried his luck under the dilapidated stone wall 
where the brook hurried out of the lot. I soon felt a 
tug on the line but struck too hard and jerked the hook 
out of the fish's mouth. However, he must have been 
pretty hungry as he took hold again when I had baited 
up and this time I landed him, a fat little quarter-pound 
trout. I had heard nothing from Tobin, though I could 
see him dimly through the brush, but when I called out, 
"Got one," he answered, "Me, too." 

I went to work again below him and fished back to 
the main brook, landing two nice half-pounders on the 
way. The first I caught in a brush-hidden pool where I 
let my bait drift with the current down under the droop- 
ing branches and had hard work to keep from getting 



62 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

' ' snagged. ' ' The other took hold under an overhanging 
bank where I crept up on my hands and knees and then 
poked my rod over the edge with a few feet of line 
dangling from it into the brook. Tobin caught one more 
small trout in the little stream and the "Dude," who 
had fished the main brook nearly to its junction with 
the tributary, had four, one of which weighed nearly 
three-quarters of a pound. 

I next fished under the alders where the little brook 
joined the big one, landing two little fellows in quick 
succession, then hustled down the brook after Tobin and 
the "Dude," who had gone on ahead. I soon caught up 
with Tobin whom I found standing quietly behind some 
brush at the edge of the brook. He motioned me to 
approach very carefully and pointed to a dark shadow 
in the water near an old log. "That trout," he whis- 
pered, "will weigh over a pound and I am going to get 
him." He stole back from the brook and crossed it a 
few hundred yards above ; he then worked his way down 
on his hands and knees to the edge of the bank a short 
distance from the old log. I stood still behind the brush 
on the further bank and watched. Presently Tobin 
pushed forward his rod and his bait slid into the water 
without a ripple. "Just a minute," thought I, "and 
he'll have him." "Splash!" The old log which was 
resting very gingerly against the bank fell back into 
the pool, disturbed by his slight motion, and the trout 
darted out of sight. ' * Damn it ! " grunted Tobin, ' ' that 's 
the best one I've seen this year." 



WITH THE CONNECTICUT TROUT 63 

In the next stretch of woods the "Dude" caught two 
small trout, Tobin three and I none. I worked hard to 
equal the others and finally snapped the tip of my rod 
while trying to work loose a hook that had caught on 
a branch on the further side of the brook. This put 
me out of the competition and I sat down on an old 
stump with my back against a birch sapling and lighted 
my pipe while Tobin fished on towards Pachaug Pond 
and the "Dude" tried a little stream nearby that seemed 
alive with small trout. I soon dozed off in the warm 
noonday sun and slept soundly for an hour or more. 
When I awoke I noticed two small animals in front of 
me, perhaps fifty yards distant. Being still drowsy, I 
at first took them for a yearling heifer and a small calf, 
then as I became wider awake and noticed their long, 
round ears and the constant whisking of their short 
tails like white flags behind them, I realized that they 
were deer. The wind was blowing towards me and I 
sat quietly watching them for some time. 

I soon reached the bridge at the lower end of the 
brook and it was not long before Tobin and the "Dude" 
joined me. The latter reached me first with four nice 
trout that he had caught in the little brook. He said 
he had landed a number of others but had put them back 
in the water as they were less than six inches long. 
Tobin arrived shortly with as many more as proof of 
his diligence since leaving me. Somebody said, "Let's 
beat it," and as the contents of our creels were sufficient 
for the various tomorrow's breakfasts, we started the 
motor and headed the old car towards home. 



THE BIG TROUT OP DEEP RIVER 
BROOK 



TAKING its rise in the laurel-clad Colchester hills, 
and ending its turbulent course in the deep, still 
pools of the boggy meadows where it meets 
Exeter Brook, Deep River has always been one of my 
favorite Connecticut trout streams. There are many 
others where a day's fishing will produce more fish, but 
if I want the big fellows, Deep River is my choice. This 
is particularly so on a sunny day in early May when 
ths swamp azalea blooms along its banks. 

On such a day Church and I got into action at the 
upper bridge, "Will" going ahead to try a few pools 
in the woods, while I prospected the swift water below 
the bridge. The black, foam-fleeted eddy resulted in a 
goose egg as did the sunlit shallows below. In one 
shallow pool I scored a strike but failed to hook the 
trout. I rested the fish a minute, then rebaited and 
tried him again. He started to make a dash at my 
worm when a dark shadow scared Mr. Trout so badly 
that he darted out of reach like a bullet. The owner of 
the shadow, a small boy who was plainly much interested 
in the fishing, stood on the bank. He was clad in two 



THE BIG TROUT OF DEEP RIVER BROOK 65 

dirty garments, a once-white shirt-waist, and a tattered 
pair of trousers remarkable for the fact that it took so 
little to hold them together. This urchin chattered a lot 
of gibberish at me which sounded like Anglicized Rus- 
sian Yiddish, but I could catch only one word, "Wilms." 
Finally I made out that the youngster himself wanted 
to fish, and would I give him one of my night-crawlers? 
To get rid of him I passed over two fine, fat wrigglers 
and he scampered off up the bank only to reappear in 
a few minutes, this time holding a short willow switch 
terminating in a bent pin. By his gestures and some- 
thing that sounded like "Put 'im on," he led me to 
understand that he wanted my assistance in baiting his 
hook. I impaled one of his worms on the pin, he slipped 
the other inside his waist for safe keeping, and then 
made off to try his luck upstream. I hurried in the 
opposite direction, resolved to land my next strike with- 
out interruption. 

Just above the old dam where I had planned to meet 
Church was a long stretch of still water. I waded out 
into the middle of the brook and fished the ripples at 
the head of this pool, losing one small trout and losing 
another before I went on. 

At the dam I stopped again. Below me the stream 
swept suddenly to the right and the current, divided by 
a ledge jutting out from the bank, formed two eddies 
which swirled back towards me, one on either side of 
the brook. I tried the right-hand eddy first and my 
bait had hardly disappeared in the troubled waters at 
the rocky point when it was captured by a. trout. I 



66 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

worked the fish into the shallow water near me where 
the sunlight streaming down through an opening in the 
trees overhead showed me the dark form darting over 
the bright sandy bottom. As his struggles grew weaker 
and weaker, I drew him up on the beach and dropped 
him on the wet moss at the bottom of my creel. Not a 
big trout, but one that weighed a little over a quarter 
of a pound. The mate to this fish was waiting in the 
other eddy, and soon came to basket though the water 
there was as black as ink, and I could not see the fish 
until I lifted him out of the water and up over the little 
dam. 

Three to start with, though I had taken some time 
to catch them and would have to slight the next piece 
of woods fishing if I wished to take proper care of the 
meadow below. I wondered how Church had fared, and 
sat down on an old log with my pipe between my teeth 
and waited his coming. The muffled drumming of a 
partridge sounded from the woods in front of me, a blue- 
jay scolded from the pine stump at my side, my eyes 
were blinking drowsily in the warm sunshine when a 
twig snapped and Church came into view. 

"Did you get any?" was his first remark. 

" Three/ ' said I, and showed him the contents of my 
basket with some little pride. "How did you make 
out!" 

"I got one pretty good one up in that meadow' ' was 
his answer as he reached into the back pocket of his 
old canvas shooting jacket. 



THE BIG TROUT OF DEEP RIVER BROOK 67 

I could tell by the difficulty he experienced in getting 
the fish out that it was a big fellow, but was unprepared 
for the beauty that he finally worked loose — just a 
shade under a full pound was the scale's verdict when 
we got home. ' ' Jingo !" thought I, "I would surely 
like to catch one of those big ones." 

We hurried through the woods and did not fish all 
the pools, though some were likely looking haunts for 
big trout. Our experience in the past had shown us 
that on Deep Eiver Brook the cream of the fishing was 
in the big meadow ahead of us and we lost no time in 
getting there before "old Dan Sisson" or some other 
wily angler forestalled us. I added one fish, a quarter- 
pounder, to my score, pulling him out of a deep hole 
under a fallen tree-top, but it was "slim pickings" to 
fish behind Church and I ran on after him. 

At the head of the meadow Church crossed over to 
the west side of the brook while I stayed on the west. 
On account of the thick brush along the banks of the 
stream it was only possible to fish the best pools from 
one side or the other, and our arrangement precluded 
our both fishing the same hole. 

I fished some distance without success. There had 
been recent heavy rains which had swollen the volume 
of water in the brook and I feared had increased the 
food supply to such an extent that the older members 
of the trout family would not be very greedy about my 
night-crawlers. I edged up to the bank and pushed the 
tip of my rod through an opening in the brush, holding 



68 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

it close to the water so that the bait would get a chance 
to work to the bottom. As the line ran out with the 
current and under a limb projecting into the stream I 
felt a sharp tug. I took up the slack and worked the 
lively fish away from the threatening branch. He had 
quite a little play in him for a half-pounder and when I 
finally landed him my spirits had risen a peg. 

I fished two more likely looking spots through the 
brush, but accomplishing nothing. Then I cautiously 
approached the pool where I had caught two three-quar- 
ter-pound beauties the year before. This was formed 
by a bend of the brook where the current had eaten out 
the bank around the roots of an old willow. There 
was no brush on my side of the stream and it was easy 
fishing. I waded out through the mud and lily pads at 
the head of the pool and cast into the eddy, working 
the bait well under the bank. Nothing rewarded my 
first attempt and I rebaited with a fresh worm and 
tried again. I let the line drift out rapidly and when 
I started to draw it in I could tell there was a fish of 
some kind tasting. I reeled off a little more line and 
gave him a good chance to get a fair sample of the bait, 
then struck. The rod bent double as the fish made 
a rush for the lower end of the pool and I knew he was 
a good one. I checked him as soon as possible as there 
was a tree top in the brook below the turn and if he 
reached it I would lose him. I began to wade backwards 
toward the bank and the fish followed, fighting fiercely. 
Once, as he was drawn into the shallow water, he made 
a vicious swirl on the surface and for a minute I thought 



THE BIG TROUT OF DEEP RIVER BROOK 69 

I had lost him. But it was his final try for liberty 
and a second later I was gloating over him on the bank. 
He was not quite so large as Church's fish, but weighed 
easily three-quarters of a pound. His sides had rather 
a greenish hue and the red spots were as bright as if 
they had just been retouched. I slipped him in my 
creel and walked on. 

Below the treetop around the bend there was some 
swift water along my bank, and crawling up to the edge 
through the short meadow grass, I dropped in. A fat 
quarter-pound trout must have been waiting there with 
his mouth open, for the bait had hardly touched the 
water when I twitched it out again with Mr. Trout 
hanging on. 

Not far beyond here the brook widened out into a 
shallow pool with a sandy bottom, and here I caught 
another small trout, who must have missed his last meal, 
as I lost him the first time he took hold, and he was 
ready at once to try again. 

It had gradually been getting darker and <?oon began 
to rain in torrents. I hurried to leeward of a row of 
big elms for shelter and stood there smoking my pipe 
until the storm passed. These elms stood on a little 
ridge a short distance back from the brook, and I could 
see over the brush and trees into the meadow on the 
other side. A small red dog with a very bushy tail held 
high in the air came loping across this field and dis- 
appeared in the brush before I realized that I was 
watching a fox. Even had I a gun I doubt if I would 



70 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

have had time to shoot when I recognized Reynard. 

The rain stopped and I went on fishing. At a sharp 
turn in the stream I stepped behind a shad-bush just 
blossoming and cast into the current. A minute later a 
mighty twitch at the line warned me that leviathan was 
there. But he had missed, and when I pulled in the 
line I found the bait severed clean at the hook. I re- 
baited with the fattest night-crawler I could find in my 
bait-box and waited a few minutes. I knew from that 
first strike that it was a big fish and I was determined 
to land him. I let the bait slip off the bank and into 
the water so as to avoid making a splash; the swift- 
running stream carried it a dozen feet below the bush 
behind which I crouched, and "Oh, joy!" the monster 
struck again. I was ready and reeled off a little line to 
enable him to gobble the worm. I did not need to strike 
back as the fish had hooked himself in his greedy rush, 
and tore off downstream at a great rate. Some alders 
grew out into the brook at the lower end of the pool 
and though I tried to check him the trout dashed in 
among the branches. I dropped the tip of my rod so 
that the line would run clear of the limbs, which seemed 
thickest at the surface, and began to reel in slowly but 
steadily. At last I was lucky enough to get him clear 
of the brush and had a fighting chance to land him. 
What worried me most was how to get the trout out of 
the brook. The stream was too deep to wade at this 
point, and the banks were very abrupt; furthermore, T 
had no landing net. Meantime the fish was making a 



THE BIG TROUT OF DEEP RIVER BROOK 71 

gallant fight for his life, rushing back and forth across 
the pool. At last the strain of the line began to tell 
on him and his dashes grew weaker; finally he turned 
over on his side for an instant and I saw it was a case 
of now or never. I reeled in all the line but a few feet, 
grasped it firmly with my left hand and twitched the 
big fellow out on the bank. The old steel rod doubled 
right up and I was sure I had lost him, but no, the 
glistening monster swung out over the grass, dropping 
off the hook at my feet. I lost no time but fell on him 
with both hands and then sat back to view my prize — 
the biggest trout I had ever seen in this vicinity. He 
weighed just one ounce over a pound and a quarter, 
and with a little feeding he would have weighed nearer 
two pounds as he was not as thick through as many 
smaller fish I have caught. I poured the other fish out 
of my creel, and placed him in the bottom of the basket, 
covering him carefully with damp moss, then replaced 
the other fish. 

I caught one more trout before I reached the bridge 
where Church and Thompson were waiting for me. 
This was a half-pounder I landed in a big pool under 
the alders, where I had waded out into the brook in 
order to get my line into the current. He seemed an 
unimportant addition to the basket after the big fellow, 
but he added to my score just the same. 

Arriving at the bridge, I found Church with his catch 
strung out on the running-board of the machine. He 
had five in all, including the fish he had already shown 
me, three half-pounders and one quarter-pounder. 



72 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Thompson, who had been fishing from the bridge 
while waiting for us, had two — one pretty trout weigh- 
ing three-quarters of a pound, and one little fellow that 
reached perhaps a quarter. They both called for my 
catch, and I took them out of the basket one by one, 
leaving the prize fish in the bottom. They counted 
eight, including the three-quarter-pounder from the wil- 
low pool, and I was high line in point of numbers, though 
I could tell from Church's expression that he was 
pleased that he still had the biggest fish. I was unable 
to keep my good fortune quiet for long, and I finally 
drew the big fellow out of the basket. 

"My! but ain't he a whopper?" cried Thompson. 

"The best one I have seen this year," said Church, 
while as for me, my delight was too great for words, 
and I made Thompson drive the car home while I sat 
in the front seat with the fish in my hand and feasted 
my eyes on the prize, "The Big Trout of Deep River 
Brook." 



"D n THAT HAWG" 



I HAD always been anxious to kill a wild turkey and 
when my January vacation was increased I decided 
to spend the last few days of it turkey hunting. A 
recent article and photographs in one of the sporting 
magazines had called my attention to the fact that tur- 
keys still existed along the banks of the Neuse Eiver 
in close proximity to my North Carolina ducking club, 
and thither I wended my way after a week of the poorest 
wildfowl shooting I ever experienced in that section. 

I arrived at my destination Sunday night accompanied 
by two other sportsmen from the " Nutmeg' ' state who 
I had met on the train. Their host was to be the same 
as mine but luckily they wanted duck shooting, which 
did not conflict with my desires. " Uncle Simon" or 
"the Colonel" as he is generally known, met us at the 
railroad station and steered us to his "home camp." 
Our pharaphernalia tucked away and our sleeping quar- 
ters located we headed for a seat around the stove in 
the tiny "settin' room." There we found a crowd of 
other nimrods toasting their shins and swapping yarns. 
The roll-call follows: 
"Uncle Jimmy" — New York manufacturer — an old 

73 



74 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

friend of " Uncle Simon's" and the idol of his children. 

"The White Man's Hope" — "Uncle Jimmy's" shoot- 
ing partner, six feet four inches of English brawn and 
nmscle. 

"The Scotchman" — repository of Gaelic yarns and 
discoverer of "The White Man's Hope." 

"The Ball Fan" — Scotty's partner — most thoroughly 
versed in "batting averages" and the doings of the 
' ' fancy. ' ' 

Tom indefatigable "bird" hunter and authority 

on shooting dogs. 

Sam manager of the local lumber mill and the 

Colonel's rival in turkey lore. 

The three "Nutmeggers" including the "Scribe" — 
"miff sed." 

"The Colonel" — turkey expert, duck expert, bird ex- 
pert and unequalled at "fightin' chickens," telling yarns, 
following his professions or tending to his guests. If 
you ever meet in North Carolina a small man with 
regular features, bushy chesnut beard and sleepy seem- 
ing blue eyes, who can yelp a turkey up out of the 
atmosphere, and walk the legs off any living creature — 
two-legged or four — "that's him." 

Monday was cold and cloudy with rain and an easterly 
wind. The Scotchman and his partner with my two 
Connecticut friends were going duck hunting; Uncle 
Jimmy and his partner and Tom, "bird" hunting if the 
rain let up, and the Scribe "turk eying." As the ducks 
and turkeys "used" on the further side of the Neuse, 



"D N THAT HAWG" 75 

a boat was imperative, though the Colonel 's launch was 
out of commission. Luckily for us, one of Uncle Simon's 
friends, a Yankee sportsman who spent his winters on 
a small motor boat cruiser, volunteered the use of 
his boat to get us over to Adams Creek, and we got 
under way shortly after 9 A. M. It was a six-mile run 
across the river which, with the subsequent course up 
Adams Creek and into its tributary, Back Creek, con- 
sumed over an hour and a half. Setting out three 
stands of decoys, one each for the two JSTutmeggers, the 
Scotchman and his partner, and William, took nearly 
as long again and it was after 1 o'clock when the Colonel 
and I headed into the pines to "rastle" up the turkeys. 
A flock of these wily birds usually frequent a stretch 
of territory several miles in extent and unless disturbed 
they make a regular weekly round of this district. For 
this reason if one is not thoroughly versed in the 
schedule of the flock he is after, it is a good deal of a 
question of luck whether he finds them or not. Of 
course if the hunter who discovers their route baits 
them with peas (hogs are likely to eat any corn) and 
has plenty of patience he usually gets a shot within a 
week or two. The turkeys probably stay in that loca- 
tion a day longer when they first discover the bait and 
on their next round come there a day in advance. If 
they always find plenty of bait they finally give up their 
" route" and stay where the food is. This is the 
hunter's opportunity. He builds a brush blind, leaving 
but one small opening through which he can train his 



76 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

gun on the feeding birds as they follow up the baited 
trail and shoots their heads off as they come in range. 
If you have not a flock baited, the custom is to try and 
find the turkeys, flush them with dogs which are trained 
to run in on them with loud barks so as to confuse the 
birds and cause them to fly in different directions, build 
a blind and "call" the birds back. 

The Colonel's "call" or "yelper" was manufactured 
out of the following — the smallest bone of a turkey's 
second joint, a piece of reed or cane such as is used for 
pipe stems in many parts of the South, an old spool 
and a piece of wood shaped like a horn. These are com- 
bined and with this instrument the old fellow certainly 
produced the most peculiar sounds; first a shrill 
"cheep" or squeak rising gradually from a low note to 
a higher and following this up with a "yelp, yelp, yelp." 

We had two dogs with us, "Teddy" and "Trixie." 
The former with her sombre brown coat was what the 
Colonel called a "native setter" though she looked like 
a combination of Irish setter and Chesapeake Bay dog. 
She was young and though her experience was limited 
was still a fair turkey dog. The other, a small white 
setter, was simply taken along as "Teddy" worked bet- 
ter when she had a "side partner." 

The ground we were to hunt consisted of "ridges" 
covered with Carolina pine, intersected by numerous 
swamps grown up with black gums and cedars tied to- 
gether with wild grape vines and briars of all makes 
and kinds. The footing in these swamps was most un- 



« D N THAT HAWG" 77 

certain and it was usually a case of tight-rope walking 
on some old tree trunk to get across. I had a .sneaking 
suspicion that the Colonel was trying me out to see if 
I could keep up the pace. 

Unluckily the ridges where we expected to find a large 
flock of turkeys — twenty-three, according to reports of 
eye witnesses — had just been cut over, including a sec- 
tion that the Colonel had recently "baited. ' ' This meant 
a long tramp to country where the birds could still 
f ee d — "mast" or acorns, pine cones, gall berries, etc. 
Finally, as we were crossing a mud hole on the cord- 
wood ties of an abandoned logging road, Uncle Simon ? 
who had been studying the ground most carefully, said, 
"Look yeah!" There in the soft, black ooze were the 
fresh tracks of a huge old gobbler. A little further 
on the Colonel called my attention to a spot where the 
pine needles had been tossed about. "Scratching," 
was his comment. Then "Teddy" started galloping off 
at top speed and I felt sure we were going to run across 
the flock, but we had arrived on the scene about a day 
late and we didn't see them. 

On our way back to the boat I asked the Colonel to 
try a call or two for luck as he had told me that occa- 
sionally you would get a shot by so doing. We sat 
down on an old log and the "pipe of Pan" appeared. 
The old fellow softly cleared his throat and put the in- 
strument to his lips. I could see his cheeks drawn in 
once or twice as he sucked on the pipe and then it came, 
"Peep, Pee — eeep, yawp, yawp, yawp," while the tall 



78 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

pines echoed back the strange notes. We sat there like 
wooden images and listened. Then again, "Pee — eep — 
yawp, yawp, yawp, yawp" and another long wait. No 
answer only the " soughing" of the wind and a distant 
shot from the creek. 

We reached our skiff with no further incident, shoved 
out to the little cruiser where we found William already 
aboard as he had not fired a shot, and we chug-chugged 
down the creek picking up the rest of the duck hunters. 
Scotty and his partner had not fired a gun but the two 
Nutmeggers had missed several chances through not be- 
ing prepared. 

That evening the Colonel and Sam, the mill man, re- 
galed us with yarns of turkey hunting. The Colonel 
told of a rich sportsman from Philadelphia who had 
come down to his place several years before. It seems 
that this arrival had hunted turkeys in Penns3^1vania, 
Virginia, Florida and the middle West but had never 
seen one. He had decided they were a myth or else he 
was a "Jonah" and he had come to North Carolina to 
decide the question. The Colonel told his guest that if 
he would stay with him long enough he would get him 
a shot, and the guest brightened up a little but said he 
had heard that before. They hunted three days, finding 
plenty of sign, ' ' scratchings, " " dustings ' ' and ' ' tracks ' ' 
Imt no turkeys, and the Quaker began to get discouraged. 
He said he had grown tired of "dustings," "scratch- 
ings" and "tracks" — what he wanted was turkeys. The 
fourth day they stayed at home as the Colonel had 



"D N THAT HAWG" 79 

nearly walked the legs off his victim, and said victim 
said he thought he had a day's rest coming to him. The 
next morning they started off again. Hardly had they 
left the boat when the dog flushed a flock of turkeys. 
The sportsman didn't see the birds and told the Colonel 
he would believe his story when he saw a turkey and 
not before. The Colonel built a comfortable stand and 
told his guest to take a nap; that he would call him 
when the time came. After about an hour and a half 
the Colonel said he began to call and soon got an answer. 
He wakened the sportsman and told him to get ready. 
Soon in answer to the call a turkey hen came running, 
"yelpin' foh eve'y breff." The sportsman slid his gun 
out through a crack in the blind, fired and there lay his 
first turkey, dead. The hunter gave a yell of delight 
and started to go after his prize but the Colonel stopped 
him and told him to get down and keep quiet. The 
Philadelphian obeyed and the Colonel kept on yelping. 
Soon a big gobbler appeared and the sportsman downed 
him. Uncle Simon killed the third — another hen — at the 
hunter's request and the fun continued. Nine chances 
did that Quaker sportsman have and killed five turkeys 
including the Colonel's. At the end, according to the 
story, the fellow acted like a crazy man, whooping and 
yelping, embracing the Colonel and shooting his gun off 
every few minutes while between times he drank often 
and copiously from his flask to the health of the "dear 
departed." 



80 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Another yarn was about an Eastern sportsman who 
missed three good shots at turkeys with a shotgun. On 
the next occasion when the dogs flushed a flock, the 
Yankee was armed with a twenty-two calibre carbine. 
As they crept after the birds the Colonel discovered an 
old gobbler roosting in a big pine about seventy-five 
yards away. Cautiously he pointed out the turkey to 
the sportsman, who whispered, "I'm going to get him 
right where the wing joins the body," took quick aim 
and fired. At the shot the gobbler tumbled to the 
ground with a thud and there was the bullet hole just 
at the base of the wing. As the Colonel said, "I reckon 
that Yank could shoot some!" 

Sam told of a hunt he once had with his father. The 
old gentleman, a famous turkey hunter, was over 70 
years of age but as keen over the sport as ever. Sam 
said they did not dare let the old fellow go out alone 
for fear something might happen to him, and on this 
occasion, after the dogs had put up a large flock of 
turkeys, he fixed his father comfortably in a small stand. 
Then he went off a short distance and built a blind for 
himself. After waiting a while he began calling and 
presently heard his father shoot twice. A little later 
his father shot again. Then a hen turkey began to an- 
swer Sam's call and he thought it was going to be his 
turn, but just as the bird was getting in range, his 
father gave a little squeal and the bird turned and ran 
off to the old gentleman. Again the sound of a gun 
arid in a few minutes Mrs. Turkey came galloping by 



"D N THAT HAWG" 81 

Sam's stand like a racehorse. Sam jumped out of the 
blind and started after her with the dog, finally came 
up to the hen with her head hidden under a pile of 
brush. She was wing-broken, so Sam wrung her neck 
and lugged her back. When it came time to start for- 
borne, Sam went over to get his father. "Well, Dad," 
said he, "killed three, didn't you?" 

"No," answered his father, "only got two. I knocked 
down the third but she got up and ran off. Where did 
you get yours! I didn't hear you shoot?" 

"I must have fired at the .same time you did," said 
Sam. 

The old gentleman couldn't get over that and all the 
way home kept saying, "Funny I didn't hear you shoot," 
while Sam kept up the deception. At the supper table 
that night his father told about the day's hunt and 
ended up with, "But I'll be dogged if I can see how 
Luke theah got his bird without shooting. ' ' 

Then Sam ' ' 'f essed up ' ' while his father twitted him 
about his poor success and told him, "You want to 
learn how to call them." This egged Sam on to try 
again the next day and he succeeded in killing three 
gobblers. When he got home that night he threw the 
birds on the porch in front of the dining-room door and 
went in to see his father. The old fellow greeted him 
with roars of laughter when he saw him return ap- 
parently empty-handed and suggested, "Luke, you 'all 
had better give up turkey huntin'. " A few minutes later 
when they stepped out on the porch to go in to supper, 



82 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Luke said, "Dad, what's that dark lump in front of the 
dining room doh?" His father stepped forward and 
picked up the three gobblers, then turned to his son, 
"Pretty lucky youVe growed so big," said he, "or you 
wouldn't dared to fool yoh ole Dad." 

Tuesday the Colonel and I got an earlier start as 
most of the crowd were going "bird hunting." The two 
Connecticut men had another man to set them out. We 
landed opposite the Winthrop lumber mill at the head 
of Adams Creek and tramped through the weed-grown 
fields of a deserted plantation, the "Lee Place." We 
climbed an old board fence and walked along in the path 
on the further side toward a big stand of Carolina pine. 
The sun was shining brightly and from the myrtle 
thicket sounded a sweet bird song. "Woity, woity, 
woity," followed at a short interval by the warble of 
a bluebird and then a liquid "Toweet, toweet, toweet." 
"That's a Carolina wren," said the Colonel, "ut suah 
is a sweet singer." 

"Teddy," a short distance ahead of us, was "making 
game." "Pahtridges," said the Colonel and at the 
corner of the fence we turned to the right to enter the 
thick pine growth. Both dogs had run straight ahead 
to a thicket of scrub pine and gall berry bushes. 

"Teddy" gave a sharp bark. I heard the flapping of 
heavy wings and the dark bodies of four and then five 
turkeys went sailing over the treetops about eighty 
yards away. "Shall I try them?" I cried to the Colonel. 
"Shoot," said he, and I gave them the second barrel 



"D N THAT HAWG" 83 

loaded with BB's but they still kept on. I could see 
the red wattles on one old gobbler, or at least I thought 
I could, and when turkey number six rose far ahead and 
started after the others, I couldn't help exclaiming, 

"D n it! If we had only kept on we would surely 

have killed a pair. ' ' We sprinted up to where the birds 
had started in the vain hope that we might get a chance 
at some skulker the dogs had not flushed, then we 
headed into the pines in the direction the flock had just 
flown. As we crept through the woods the Colonel whis- 
pered " Watch the trees; you might see a turkey settin' 
up on a limb, ' ' but a careful search determined that the 
birds had taken a long flight and were not in our im- 
mediate vicinity. There was plenty of "sign" in the 
pine thickets, and one tall tree had evidently served as 
a " roost." 

The Colonel was not very sanguine about our chances 
of calling up a turkey as the flock had not scattered, 
but after a final circle through the brush he brought up 
at a windfall and started to build a blind. It was but 
a short job as the branches of the fallen trees made an 
effective screen for anyone hidden behind them, and the 
addition of a few pine branches and tops of laurel 
brush "chinked" up the crevices in such shape as to 
hide our motions thoroughly. I made myself comfort- 
able in one corner of the structure while the Colonel 
dozed in the other. The sunlight playing through the 
branches, the aromatic smell of the pines and the song 
of the birds lulled me to sleep. I was awakened by the 



84 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Colonel's prelude on his turkey call, "Yawp, yawp, 
yawp." A wait of a few minutes and a little squeal fol- 
lowed again with "Yawp, yawp, yawp," the "Chow, 
chow, chow," Sam termed it, ended the sonata. Uncle 
Simon's attitude was one of rapt attention, though his 
closed eyes rather discredited his position. Suddenly he 
opened his eyes wide as he whispered, "Did you hear 
one?" and he called again. No answer. There was a 
small peep-hole in front of me and I kept a sharp look- 
out on the thicket. As I gazed I seemed to see the bald 
head and scraggy neck of a turkey hen watching me 
intently. I moved slightly and she disappeared. I 
called the Colonel but he couldn't see anything of her. 
It was all imagination, helped out by the combinati m 
of a pink leaf and a dead branch viewed from a certain 
direction. Along towards afternoon the Colonel stood 
up, shook himself, and said, "We might just as well 
move on. They won't come back here tonight." 

Leaving the blind we started off in the direction taken 
by the turkeys and on the further side of an impene- 
trable cover of underbrush and briars discovered an- 
other pine ridge where the dogs acted "gamey" and 
several fresh "dustings" seemed to show the recent 
gathering of the flock. "This is where we should have 
come right away," said the Colonel. "Then we would 
have flushed them again and probably had a shot. That 
call I heard was the old hen getting them together and 
they're miles away by now. We might as well start 
back for the boat." 



"D N THAT HAWG" 85 

That night after supper asked the Colonel if there 
weren't a lot of mosquitoes along the Neuse in the sum- 
mer time, and the Colonel said there were, but nothing 
like up in Hyde County. "Why up than," he went on, 
"a case come foh da coht. Uncle Lou Midget's wife 
'lowed ,she shoh wanted a separshun from Unc'l Lou 
cohse he wouldn't leave Hyde County and de skeeters 
was so monst'us bad she sholy couldn't live thah no 
moh. 'Why, yoh Honah,' says she, 'w'en I go down teh 
fetch a bucket of watah, I sho neff has teh draw three 
buckets er skeeters befoh I git any watah.' " 

"There certainly must be some ' skeeters' there," said 
one of the Connecticut boys. "I met an old fellow on 
the train coming here named Fleetwood, who said he 
knew a man in Hyde County who went to the store and 
bought nine pounds of beef, and when he got home all 
he had left was the skin — the ' skeeters' had eaten all 
the beef." 

Wednesday was Uncle Jimmy's last day and the old 
Colonel promised to go quail hunting with him and the 
"White Man's Hope." Sam, the lumber man, said he 
thought he would take a day off and go turkey hunting 
with me. He was ready by about 10 o'clock and took 
me across the river in the lumber company's tug. We 
struck in again at the Lee place as Sam said he knew 
there was a flock "usin' " back of Jim Nelson's in case 
we didn't find the birds we saw on Tuesday. Sam said 
he had not done much walking lately but his years of 
timber cruising had certainly hardened him up as he 



86 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

fairly flew through the cover. We couldn't find yester- 
day's flock and kept on towards Nelson's. As we were 
going through a thicket of young pine I heard the flop- 
ping of many wings and started to snap at the glimpse 
of a dark body sailing off. Sam whispered, "No use, 
only buzzards," and in a minute more we came upon 
the carcass of a cow, upon which they had been gorging, 
lying in a deep ditch. Among some tall pines not far 
back of the Nelson house we found plenty of turkey sign 
around an old hog-pen where somebody had scattered a 
bushel or two of corn, but the birds themselves were 
not there. Along about noon we flushed a covey of quail 
and Sam made a nice right and left through the briars. 
I pulled on one little hen as she whizzed past my head 
but the "safety" was on and nothing happened. 

We tramped all afternoon with no success though Sam 
knocked a grey squirrel out of the top of a tall oak. 
Everywhere we found turkey sign but we couldn't find 
the birds. 

The next day the Colonel made an early start. We 
had decided to spend the morning looking for the flock 
on the north side of Back Creek and the afternoon hunt- 
ing the bunches on the Lee and Nelson places. That 
morning hunt was the hardest hunt of the trip. It was 
a close day and the swamps we encountered certainly 
opened the pores. In one awful hole we got hung up 
in the briars for nearly an hour, and when we did get 
out our faces, heads and clothing were nearly torn to 
pieces. Every sign was lacking on this tramp until we 



"D N THAT HAWG" 37 

were nearly back to the boat when v v T e came to a place 
where it looked as if the turkeys had only just been 
there. We left for the other flocks, however, without 
seeing the birds, though soon after I went north I re- 
ceived a letter from the Colonel saying that he had 
killed an eighteen-pound gobbler in this place. 

Lunch finished, we started in at the Lee place and 
after a long walk heard the welcome "flop, flop" of big- 
wings and a turkey got up out of gunshot not far from 
the Nelson place and flew off towards the Neuse. I had 
always heard that the turkey flew in a straight line, 
making it a simple matter to flush him a second time if 
you noticed the direction of his flight. The bird we had 
put up rather disproved this theory as after a short, 
straight flight he swung off well towards the right. We 
did not follow as the Colonel thought we would flush 
the rest of the flock if we kept on to the old hog-pen 
where Sam and I had found the bait the day before. 
A quarter of a mile further "Teddy" began to bark 
vigorously and we heard sounds of turkeys getting up 
on all sides. We had glimpses of three or four dark 
bodies flitting through the trees and I tried an unsuc- 
cessful snap at one that was practically out of range, 
but the tall pines grew so thick that we saw only a small 
portion of the flock. The hog-pen provided us with a 
convenient blind as it had not been used and the floor 
was clean though rather damp. The Colonel was not 
very optimistic as to our chances of getting a shot be- 
cause it was late in the afternoon, a quarter of four, and 



88 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

he feared that most of the birds had alighted in trees 
where they would probably roost for the night. One 
hen, however, had flown towards the river to the north 
of us and he had hopes .she might answer his call and 
come in as the rest of the birds had scattered in other 
directions. The old fellow gave me careful instructions 
about keeping my head below the log sides of the blind 
and not making a move, particularly if he got an answer, 
and we squatted there like wooden dummies for about 
half an hour. We had filled up the cracks between the 
logs with bunches of pine needles and a few pine 
branches but there were still many peep-holes and you 
can be sure I kept a sharp lookout. 

Then the Colonel began to call and immediately the 
turkey hen answered, "Yup, yup, yup." I stretched out 
flat on the ground, never daring to move a muscle until 
Uncle Simon warned me to get ready. The bird an- 
swered the call for nearly ten minutes and then went, 
"Putt, putt. Putt, putt." "Look out, she's coming," 
whispered the Colonel and then, "Thaar she goes. 
She flew into that big pine." Another call from the 
little pipe, instant answer from the hen and then she 
quit. An instant later a loud crackling in the under- 
brush called our attention to an old hog that went 
grunting by, but the racket had done it's work — it had 
frightened the hen and she wouldn't come in. 

"You might as well set up," said the Colonel, "we'll 
have to wait till dark and see if we can get a shot at 
her in the tree after she's tucked her head under her 



"D N THAT HAWG" 89 

wing." I was so stiff from the long, exciting wait in a 
strained position that I could hardly move, but finally 
made myself comfortable and waited for the darkness. 
At 6 o'clock we crept out of the blind and tiptoed over 
to the big pine where the Colonel said the hen was 
"roosting." It was so dark that we were unable to 
distinguish the bird and after a long and fruitless 
scrutiny we fired two shots up into the thick branches 
in the hopes of starting the turkey out. Nothing stirred 
and we had to give up our quest. That three-mile 
tramp to the boat through the thick woods in the pitch 
darkness was a weird experience but proved the Col- 
onel's mettle as a woodsman. I had to hold one arm in 
front of me to keep the boughs from striking me in the 
face or eyes, but the old fellow slid along the trail with 
unerring instinct, while I stumbled along at his back 
practically holding on to his coat tails. 

The following morning I left for the North and the 
Colonel on seeing me off expressed his disappointment 
that I had been so unlucky. As he put it, "I'm dogged 
that you 'all didn't get ah turkey. I was certainly suah 
of a shot yesterday but 'D n That Hawg!' " 

My story really ends here but after I had been home 
for about two weeks I received from the Colonel by 

express a hen turkey. He said he and Mr. M of 

New York had killed four a few davs before. 



THE DUDE AND I BATTERY SHOOTING 
AT PAMLICO SOUND 



SUNDAY, the day after Christmas, saw me under 
way for a trip to Pea Island, Pamlico Sound. It 
was an inauspicious beginning, as we had a heavy 
snowfall the night before, but I did not realize till later 
that Sunday certainly was "ma Jonah day." After 
what I know now it would take a heap of urging to get 
me started off on another shoot on Sunday. 

According to my reckoning, I was due at the Island 
on Tuesday, while the "Dude" and my cousin, who had 
planned to leave New York on Friday of the same week, 
should get there the following Sunday. I had already 
pictured in my mind's eye a host of ducks and geese 
hanging on the club house porch to greet their view on 
their arrival, but the "best laid plans," as the old saying 
goes, "gang aft agley." 

Due to heavy snow storms causing delay, it was 
Tuesday evening when I reached Norfolk. 

Wednesday morning I left Norfolk on the Norfolk & 
Southern train bound for Elizabeth City. I felt like a 
new man after a comfortable night and a hearty break- 
fast at the " Monticello, " but even so, decided to risk 

90 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 91 

no further delay by waiting for the train three hours 
later which was scheduled to connect at Elizabeth City 
with the boat for Manteo. Happily this stage of my 
journey was destined to elapse without accident, and I 
arrived at my destination on time and without injury. 

The sun was shining on the muddy waters of the Pas- 
quotank, the air was soft and balmy; it was easy to 
forget the snow and cold of old New England in the 
warmth of the "Sunny South." The "Hattie Creef" 
was lying alongside the wharf opposite the railroad sta- 
tion and I headed that way intent on passing the time 
of day with ' ' Captain Johnson. ' ' The dock was littered 
with freight and express and I had my eyes open for 
game shipments; nor was I disappointed. Directly in 
front of me loomed a large crate from which resounded 
the honking and cackling of a score of "Canadas." 
"For the park in Philadelphia/' said the agent, "but 
what do you think of these?" He pointed first to the 
bodies of two small Virginia deer, a five-point buck and 
a doe, and then pushing aside a packing case or two, to 
the carcass of a huge "she bear." "Came from down 
Washington way," said he. 

As I was gaping at the long claws and mouthful of 
fangs displayed by old "Mother Bruin," a familiar 
voice drawled, "Waal, stranger, glad to see yer," and 
I looked up to see the sinewy figure of my friend 
"Cap'n Johnson." A few remarks about the weather, 
a few queries about old friends and the chances for a 
successful shoot, and we gravitated to the cabin of the 



S2 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

"Creef" where my small flask was made considerably 
lighter. 

My guns and baggage were stowed aboard by one 
of the darky roustabouts; then, as the Captain seemed 
busy getting a quantity of building material for Manteo 
aboard the boat, I left him, and filling my pipe, sat down 
on a packing case to enjoy a quiet smoke in the sunshine. 
But not for long, for soon a cold northwest wind sprang 
up, the sky clouded over, blotting out the sun, and it 
began to snow. I changed my seat to the neighborhood 
of the stove in the agent's office on the dock and waited 
for starting time. At last it came. The ' ' Creef " cast 
off and chugged down the river through the thickening 
snow for Eoanoke Island and Manteo. 

Three hunters, two men and a boy, had joined us upon 
the arrival of the noon train from Norfolk, and they, 
with a couple of other passengers, made up our little 
company. I soon got into conversation with one of my 
fellow nimrods, and discovered that he was a New York 
lawyer, who with his son and partner were bound for 
their houseboat, "The Ark," which they expected to 
find in Mill Creek, near Wanchese. Carpenter, my new 
acquaintance, had been coming to Pamlico Sound for a 
good many years and had belonged, during its short 
existence, to some shooting club at the south end of 
Eoanoke. This club, according to his story, had been 
buncoed by its local representative to such an extent 
that it soon found itself without any shooting grounds 
save a few "goosin' lumps' ' on the Bodie Island shore. 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 93 

Those were not a sufficient drawing card to keep up the 
annual dues; the little .schooner, "The Brant/ ' which 
brought the members from Elizabeth City was sold, and 
the club died a natural death. Shortly afterwards, a 
sickly New Yorker, who was cruising about the Sound 
in his houseboat in search of health, failed to accomplish 
his purpose and Carpenter purchased his outfit — hence 
"The Ark.' ' 

I had been so interested in the history of "The Ark M 
that I had paid little attention to the weather or to our 
progress, but these matters were now brought vividly to 
my attention. The door slammed open with a crash 
and in whirled a cloud of snowflakes and "Cap'n John- 
son. " " Boys, ' ' said he, " I reck 'n I 'm gwine to dis 'p 'int 
yer, but it's snowin' thicker 'n Hades, that deck load of 
iron for the jail has set mah compass at least five p'ints 
out, and I 'low Elizabeth City's the place for us." 

Johnson then headed the old "Creef" back for her 
dock which we reached in about an hour. The two pas- 
sengers boarded the next train for Norfolk, while the 
nimrods, after an interview with the ' l Creef 's ' ' capte in, 
in which he promised to notify us before he made an- 
other start for Manteo, scoured Elizabeth City for a 
square meal. We brought up at a small Greek restau- 
rant and were pleasantly disappointed at all the good 
things set before us. Oyster stew and broiled quail on 
toast fairly melted away before our ravenous appetites, 
and then the Captain appeared with the welcome news 
that the snow squall had blown over and he was going 
to start for Roanoke. 



94 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

This time we reached our destination without further 
delay, and tied up at the Manteo dock at 9 :30. I said 
good-bye to Carpenter, whose launch was waiting to 
take him and his party to "The Ark" at Mill Creek 
and made my way to the "Tranquil House." "Cap'n 
Jesse" had given up waiting for me and gone home but 
good Mrs. Evans saw that I was well fed and had a 
warm feather bed for the night. The only thing that 
disturbed my sleep was Cap'n Johnson's parting remark 
as I left the "Creef": "I reckon you boys won't get 
to Pea Island tomorrow; it is going to come off cold 
and the Sound will likely freeze over. ' ' 

It surely was cold the next morning, and on looking 
out of my window at 7:30, I could still see the "Creef" 
at her dock, although she was due to leave for Elizabeth 
City at 5. Furthermore, I could see a line of foam that 
marked the edge of the ice far out from the shore. 

After breakfast "Cap'n Jesse" arrived and I imme- 
diately sounded him as to the possibility of getting down 
to Pea Island. He said he would make an attempt to 
reach the club, but thought we would find it impossible 
to break our way through the ice to the shore when we 
got off the island. If we were successful and had to 
return to Manteo against a head wind, the motor boat 
might "log up" with ice to such an extent that we would 
be caught in the freeze out in the Sound. This was not 
a cheerful prospect and when a telephone query to the 
Pea Island Life Saving Station brought back the answer 
that the ice extended over a mile from shore off the club 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 95 

house, I decided to wait for the " break-up.' ' I strolled 
over to Meekin's store with "Cap'n Jesse' ' and drawing 
up a chair near the stove, toasted my toes and listened 
to the old timers spin yarns about a cold spell ten years 
previous which lasted two weeks, when the Sound froze 
solid and it was possible to cross over on the ice from 
Eoanoke to Bodie Island. These yarns were not very 
encouraging, neither did I relish the fact that my "wet 
goods" and tobacco, which would have helped to while 
away the time, were reposing at the club house, as I had 
expressed them ahead to lighten my load. 

The following morning dawned "clear and colder." 
The ice now extended as far as you could see and there 
was not a sign of life out on the Sound save where a 
small flock of swan flying by, shimmered in the sun off 
the mouth of Manteo Harbor. At the wharf in front of 
the "Tranquil House" lay a government boat named 
the "Gretchen," and her "chief," a crony of "Cap'n 
Jesse's," asked us aboard. She was a tidy little motor 
cruiser, about fifty feet waterline, equipped with a thirty- 
horse-power engine and comfortable quarters for a crew 
of five or six men. Her captain, a graduate of Cornell, 
employed in survey work for a new chart of Pamlico 
Sound, made the morning slip by so pleasantly that it 
was lunch time before we realized it. 

After luncheon I was smoking a quiet pipe in Meekin's 
store, when I spied the New Yorker, Carpenter, and his 
partner, striding down the village street. They greeted 
me with open arms and asked me to spend the rest of 



96 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

my enforced sojourn on Roanoke with them on "The 
Ark." Did I accept? Manteo and the old "Tranquil 
House ' ' saw only a flitting shadow as I hustled after my 
"friends in need" on their tramp to Wanehese and Mill 
Creek. It was a long eight-mile walk and when finally 
we were assembled in the tiny cabin of the good ship 
"Ark" I had lots of dust in my throat and plenty of 
room under my belt. Carpenter settled the first with 
the contents of a long glass crowded with tinkling ice, 
and filled the latter void with fried chicken, yams, baked 
beans and other good things from the commissary. Soon 
after, Ben Cohoon, the captain of the craft, superin- 
tended the setting up of two cots in the saloon and we 
turned in. 

Saturday, "darn the luck," the ice seemed thicker 
than ever. Carpenter suggested tramping through the 
marsh near the creek with the object of bagging a snipe 
or two, and off we went. We had hardly left the landing 
before a bird flushed on Carpenter's left, to drop dead 
at the crack of his gun. This seemed to presage good 
luck, but nevertheless we got back to the boat without 
another shot. 

Sunday morning I was awakened in the "wee small 
hours" by a thumping and creaking which seemed to 
demand an investigation. I stuck my head out of the 
hatchway and saw that a heavy swell was pounding in 
from the eastward and the ice had disappeared. No 
sleep for the weary after that and I fear that I made 
myself decidedly unpopular by dragging the rest of the 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 97 

party out of their berths to view the welcome sight. 
Breakfast dispatched, Carpenter's two motor launches 
made fast to "The Ark" and started to tow her and 
her family of battery boats, batteries and decoys to Pea 
Island. On our voyage we saw a few flocks of bluebills 
and some geese, though nothing like the raft of fowl 
that had greeted me on previous trips. Shortly after 
noon we came to anchor in Baum's Slough, where I was 
picked up by "Cap'n Jesse' ' and chug-chugged ashore. 
At the club house a telegram from my cousin and the 
"Dude" stated that they would be off the mouth of the 
slough at 5 o'clock and Jesse started back for them. I 
toasted my toes at the stove and listened to the guides' 
stories of the shooting I had missed by not "getting 
there" before the freeze. According to their accounts, 
Wednesday afternoon, the day of the snow-storm, the 
fowl had been driven ashore in such numbers that one 
could have killed geese, black ducks and "sprig" until 
he was tired. Another tale that made me think hardly 
of my lost time was the wonderful battery shooting on 
Saturday, when "Bandy" Farrell, the market gunner, 
"tied out" as the ice started to break up about noon, 
and picked up one hundred and forty ducks, over forty 
of them redheads, with one hundred and eighty shells. 
Still, I had a week ahead of me to make up for what I 
had lost, so why worry. 

The rest of the party arrived in due time and after 
a hasty supper made plans for the morrow, and soon 
"hit the pillow." They had suffered practically no de- 



98 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

lay, for though they had been forced to spend one night 
in Elizabeth City, as the "Creel" was not running, they 
had succeeded Sunday morning in chartering a " sea- 
going' ' motor boat which had brought them directly to 
Pea Island. 

There was a light southwest breeze stirring when we 
rose at 5 Monday morning and we decided to put out 
two outfits. The "flip up" of a nickel decided that 
Cousin Henry should take care of one battery while the 
"Dude" and I took turns in looking after the other. 
We rallied several rafts of bluebill and redhead as we 
glided over Rock Shoal and soon cut loose Cousin and 
his battery with John Etheridge and Eddie Wise to 
"tend" in the sailing skiff. It seemed as if a few of 
the fowl we had started might return to call on the 
combination. The "Dude" and I with the other battery 
and the motor boat and with "Cap'n Jesse" and Payne 
to look out for us ran off some distance to the southwaid 
and were shortly set out and ready for business. 

I went in the battery first and after keeping careful 
watch for over half of my two-hour period without see- 
ing a duck coming my way, I closed my eyes for a minute. 
I opened them with a start on hearing a soft "Queek, 
queek," and sure enough, there, with her white spotted 
head dipping up and down, was a small female bluebill 
swimming around among the decoys. I sat up in the 
box and threw the little Scott to my shoulder, but she 
still kept swimming and diving among her stupid neigh- 
bors. At last, when I rose to my feet, Madame Bluebill 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUNt) 99 

decided to depart in haste, but the chance was an easy 
one — she fell at my first barrel and bobbed away to lee- 
ward. I had to shoot twice to kill the next bluebill, an- 
other single, and wing-broke a third, just as the "Dude" 
came up to take his spell. He didn't have much better 
luck and when I went in again at 2 P. M. our total score 
was six bluebill and one redhead. In the afternoon the 
shooting grew a little better, though all my chances 
were at single birds and bluebills at that. However, 
mighty few got away and I could not have said as much 
if the birds had come in bunches. When we took up we 
counted nineteen bluebill and five redheads, the last to 
the credit of the "Dude." We picked up Cousin and 
his party on the way in and took a look at the bag. His 
luck was no better than ours and though he had sixteen 
birds, ten of them were "coots" and other "trash" 
ducks. Altogether, our first day's luck might have been 
a little better. 

That night "Cap'n Jesse," who had been fidgetting 
about the barometer for some time without saying any- 
thing, suddenly exclaimed, "D n it, boys, I hate to 

say it, but we'll have easterly wind tomorrow and you 
ail know what that means — no ducks." We pooh- 
poohed the suggestion and slept the sleep of the just, 
but morning proved the truth of the prophecy, as the 
wind was blowing hard from the northeast and the tide 
in the Sound was so far out that you could barely see 
the edge of the flats. Cousin and I decided to accom- 
pany Jesse on a tramp over the club's land north of the 



100 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

house, while the "Dude" was stationed in a "bury-box" 
with a stand of goose decoys, near "Goosin' Island." 

At the north end of Pea Island, near the Oregon Inlet 
Life Saving Station, Cousin called my attention to a 
solitary black duck settling down in a piece of marshy 
ground and I headed in that direction. The bird flushed 
at some distance from me on my right, though I was 
lucky enough to double him up with my first shot. I 
kept on toward a small pond ahead of me and soon I 
jumped another "black." I felt very sure of this duck, 
as it got up so close I could nearly strike it with my 
gun, but it seemed to bear a charmed life and hurried 
away unscathed, while both barrels hurled number 6's 
in its direction. 

On our way back to the club house we picked up the 
"Dude," who was rather wearied of his unsuccessful 
wait in that "blasted coffin," as he termed the "bury 
box. ' ' Cousin relieved him for the few hours remaining 
before dark, but with no better luck, and my one black 
duck was the only score. 

Wednesday the wind was still fresh from the east- 
ward. Cousin joined Jesse in trip to the south end of 
the island, while the "Dude" and I, with John Etheridge 
and Payne, started out with the battery. The fowl 
seemed to be trading between the Turtle Bed Flats and 
Rock Shoal and we tied out in the "flyway." I think 
we would have prospered better if we had set out where 
the birds were "using," but we didn't realize this until 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 101 

it was too late to change our location. There was a 
strong tide setting in across our layout and as the wind 
was light the stool were heading every which way. The 
"Dude" killed two bluebill during his trick, while I sat 
in the motor boat and gathered oysters with an old 
rake. They certainly tasted good, fresh from the salty 
waters of the Sound, and better still were the oyster 
crabs, which seemed to live in every oyster. At about 
2 o'clock I relieved the "Dude," who went off with the 
motor boat to rally some of the fowl. He was success- 
ful and the air was soon full of numerous bunches 
of ducks, both redhead and bluebill, all heading in my 
direction. I lay low and got ready for action, but the 
unnatural position of the decoys did its work and flock 
after flock flared off just when I was sure they were 
coming in. Finally, after waiting in vain for some of 
the birds to swing in over the decoys, I began shooting 
at anything that came anywhere within range. The re- 
sult was discouraging. Time and time again I won Id 
drop one and two ducks out of the hurrying bunches, 
but nearly all crippled and out of range where they had 
dropped, so I had no opportunity to shoot them again. 
The most disappointing part of it was that nearly all 
the fowl were redhead, and the multitude of cripples 
escaping to leeward was most disheartening. As I re- 
member the result, Payne and John Etheridge picked 
up six redheads and four bluebills out of the twenty- six- 
birds I had down. 



102 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

The next morning Cap'n Jesse picked up seven red- 
heads and five dead bluebills where they had drifted 
ashore. My shooting had been at birds too far away. 

It was the rule at Pea Island to determine the choice 
of points, guides and dogs for the following morning 
by cutting the cards the evening before. Once I cut with 
Leroy Davis, the president of the club, and "Old Bob" 
Smith, the clerk of the County Court. Davis tried first 
and got a queen, "Old Bob" caught a king and I topped 
them both with an ace. I also won choice of guides and 
took Howard, reserving choice of points till morning. 

In the morning the wind was to the southwest and on 
Howard's advice I chose South Point as great strings 
of redheads had been trading through the pass between 
this point and Cedar Island. I made this decision some- 
what against my will as the day before I had killed the 
first "canvas" of the season at Gordon's Bend, pulling 
him down from high up in the air with the big eight 
gauge. Also the grass was all "tore up" in the deep 
water off the Bend, sure sign of canvas "using" theie. 
However, we went to South Point, Davis to Gordon's 
Bend and Bob Smith to Lane's. We had hardly set out 
when the fog shut in so thick we could hardly see tne 
stool and hung on till noon. This spoiled our morning 
redhead flight and all we killed that day was one red- 
head and one goose. 

"I wonder what Mr. Davis got at Gordon's," was 
Howard's first remark when we started for home. 

At the club-house door both Davis and Smith met us, 
anxious to see our bag, and I glimpsed a poorly con- 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 103 

cealed grin when they saw its slimness. The followed 
me into the gun-room with smiling faces. Ye gods! 
What a sight! Twenty-six "canvas" lay in state before 
my eyes. Didn't I wish I had chosen Gordon's Bend 
when I heard their story ! Davis had had canvas falling 
all over his stool and had come home to lunch when the 
flight was thickest. Also he had done wretched shoot- 
ing, though he had bagged sixteen. "Os" Moore, who 
had been with him, said that if Mr. Davis had not come 
home to lunch and done any decent shooting, he should 
have killed anywhere from fifty to seventy-five canvas. 
There was no limit. Think of it! Bob Smith at Lane's 
had picked up ten that had come to him from Davis' 
flocks. I decided after that experience that choice of 
location did not always mean birds. 

I well recollect my first experience at Ragged Islands 
at battery shooting. An outfit was always kept ready 
aboard the "big boat," a large open sloop or sharpie. 
It was seldom used, however, except by a few of the 
club members on very calm days. 

One such day I determined to try it and had "Os" 
and Howard tie me out in the "fly way" between Cedar 
Island and South Point. There was not much moving 
except numerous bunches of "boobies" or ruddy ducks, 
"greasers" I believe they call them on the Chesapeake 
Bay. None of them seemed to come my way, though I 
kept well down, according to instructions from the 
guides. I constantly heard the whistle of wings but 
when I looked up the birds were always out of range. 
Finally Moore shoved up to me and said, "What's the 
matter! Why don't you shoot?" 



104 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

"At what?" said I, "I haven't had a chance." 

"Yes, you have," was his answer. "Those ' boobies' 
have been cutting over the stool back of your head all 
the time you have been in there. Would you like me to 
try it for a little while?" 

I assented and "Os" changed with me while I went 
and swallowed some lunch aboard the "big boat." He 
shot a number of times and on my way back Howard 
picked up thirteen "boobies" that had fallen to Oscar's 
gun. 

The flight seemed to have ceased when I got in again 
but after a long wait a solitary canvasback drake circled 
around the outfit and lit in the stool back of my right 
shoulder. I was not posted on the batteryman's trick 
of throwing his feet out of the box and spinning around 
on a pivot for shots of this kind so I took a chance from 
my left shoulder which resulted in a cut lip and the also 
the escape of the "canvas." We took up soon after- 
ward and I went ashore without killing a bird on my 
first day in a battery. 

I had an amusing experience with a battery on another 
trip. Or rather my friend "Mike" did. We were tied 
off Lane's in shallow water and the shooting was fair, 
"Mike" downing eight "boobies" and one canvas in his 
first trick, though it was his first time in a "sink-box." 
Howard poled me up to relieve him but before we got 
alongside "Mike," thinking that there was a wing at 
the foot of the battery as on the other three sides, 
started towards us and walked right off into the bay. 



BATTERY SHOOTING AT PAMLICO SOUND 105 

The water was only up to his waist though slightly chilly 
and he was soon warmed up again as the result of some 
vigorous sprinting up and down the marsh nearby and 
internal applications from my flask. I didn't think I 
would ever be able to stop laughing at the startled look 
of amazement on his face when he first came up after 
his sudden dip. 

One day at Eagged Islands I was tied out in the bat- 
tery and as it was a flat calm there was very little mov- 
ing. I lay back basking in the warm sunshine, and was 
getting a little drowsy when I happened to glance down 
at the stool over the tops of my rubber boots. There 
was a large redhead drake, with his wings set, just 
alighting in the water. I sat up and, as he rose, downed 
him with my second barrel. A bunch of bluebill showed 
up on my left side, but the wind had shifted a little since 
we tied out and the stool had trailed off to the right of 
the battery, so that the birds swung up at my back 
and came down over me at a mile-a-minute clip. Two 
barrels accomplished nothing and I had to lie back with- 
out waving to the tender. 

A pair of redheads now flew by outside the decoys to 
leeward. "Too far," I said to myself, "but I'll try 'em 
once for luck." I held the gun carefully on the last 
bird, gave him a good lead, and at the report he crumpled 
up dead, at least fifty yards from the battery. When 
Payne pushed up to relieve me, he said, "That was a 
nice shot, sir," and I felt quite proud, but there is an 
old saying, the truth of which I was to know later. 



BOAST GOOSE AND FIXIN'S AT 
PEA ISLAND 



AFTEE considerable duck shooting at Pamlico, I 
and the "Dude" decided to devote one entire day 
to hunting the wary goose. On the day we had 
set, "Cap'n" Jesse" got the "goosin' " outfit together 
and started with the "Dude" and me for the south end 
of the island. 

It seemed that Cousin and he on their journey the 
day before had put up several hundred geese near some 
small pools of fresh water back among the sand hills, 
where we headed. Furthermore, the ground was covered 
with droppings and goose tracks and Jesse was sure it 
was a regular drinking hole for the fowl. There was a 
portable stand nearby which we soon shifted into posi- 
tion in a hole dug in the sand, scattered seaweed over 
the freshly spaded ground, and started to peg out our 
twenty-odd goose decoys. We had just tied down the 
last decoy and were stacking our guns and shell boxes 
in the stand, when Jesse exclaimed, "Get down, boys, 
quick, here comes an old goose!" We lay down in the 
sand and watched the big bird flopping up against the 
strong wind. I did not see how he could help noticing 
us, but that gander's eyes must have been fixed on our 
decoys, which were calling to him so vigorously. As 
another enticement, the "Dude," who had slipped into 

106 



ROAST GOOSE AND "FIXIN'S" 107 

the stand, was peeking out through the sedge with his 
genial grin. Anyhow, the old goose set his wings to 
alight among the decoys, whatever the reason, whether 
he mistook that smile for a welcoming look from one of 
his next of kin, or whether he was hypnotized by the 
"Dude's" eagle eye. The "Dude" was the only man 
who had any shells handy and as I whispered, "Let 
him have it, ' ' he fired first one barrel and then the other 
I expected to witness Mr. Goose's sudden demise and 
the "Dude's" consequent elation, but I was to be dis- 
appointed. The goose hustled away in record time, 
while the "Dude" excused himself by saying that he 
had used number 5 shot (his duck loads) instead of 
BB's. 

Finally the "Dude" and I were packed into the little 
box as tightly as cigars in a case. Jesse and John 
Etheridge were out of sight with the team and we were 
looking for more geese. The "Dude" guarded the lee- 
ward side of the fort with his twelve-gauge Parker and 
I held down the other side with a Remington auto- 
matic twelve-gauge and an old English eight-gauge. 
The Remington was brand new, had been restocked and 
refitted to come up as nearly as possible like my old Scott 
twelve, and I had resolved for once to leave the old gun 
at home and try the new one instead. I had brought 
the eight bore along in case the automatic failed to work, 
but my eight-gauge shells were a year old and bulk nitro 
of that age is not much good on the seacoast. 

There were eight geese in the first flock that arrived. 
They came from the "Dude's" side, as in fact did all 



108 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

the birds that day, and dropping down among the de- 
coys, waddled about, while the "Dude" and I shivered 
with excitement. We decided to stand up and shoot 
when the birds jumped. We forgot, however, that both 
of us were pretty large and the stand pretty small, and 
when we got up were so entangled with each other that 
out of four shots we got just one goose. Disgusted 
with our clumsy work, we sat back to wait for another 
chance. Soon it came. Eight fine, fat geese joined the 
decoys and we jumped up to shoot. As the birds rose, 
we dropped three with our first shots, and one each, 
mine wing-broken, with our seconds. The automatic 
jammed with the first shell and I sprang out of the stand 
and tore up the beach after the cripple, working the 
ejector with my right hand. I don't know how many 
times I shot at the poor creature before I finally killed 
him, but when I returned to the stand with the dead 
bird, the "Dude" was rolling over and over, convulsed 
with merriment. "Why didn't you club him with your 
gun instead of wasting all those shells ? You would have 
got him quicker," he cried. After that the automatic 
reposed in one corner of the stand and I shot the eight- 
gauge. 

Three more bunches visited our decoys and we took 
toll from them all. I counted fourteen as our total score 
when the flight ceased towards afternoon. Two of the 
geese had trailed off towards the sand hills apparently 
badly hit and I started to look them up. I soon found 
one stone dead and discovered the other not far from 



ROAST GOOSE AND "FIXIN'S" 109 

the first but with his head up. He did not wait for me 
to get within range, and the one shot I fired when he 
flew off was simply a sporting chance. I saw him alight 
again far out on the flats and started after him. On 
the way I encountered Jesse, who said he thought the 
bird was dead. I told him I did not think so and handed 
him the Eemington to try when the bird got up. Sure 
enough when Jesse approached and up went the Eem- 
ington, " Crack! crack !" and still the goose flew on. 
Then a third "Crack !" and the old Canada came down 
in a heap. I made my way back to the stand with the 
two geese, and enjoyed a pipe in the sunshine. 

Presently the "Dude" whispered, "There's Jesse 
rallying the big raft of geese out on the flats." "We lay 
low and the great flock headed our way while we watched 
them and listened to the increasing clamor as they an- 
swered our decoys. We saw that they would not decoy, 
so stood up and gave them four "guns" as they went 
by. I accomplished nothing but the "Dude" landed an 
old gander that acted as if he had a stroke of paralysis 
and came tumbling down from among his companions 
to fall dead with a "thump" among our decoys. As we 
trudged home that night beside the old pony with our 
seventeen geese lying in state in the "sand buggy" we 
decided that the day's shoot was well worth the trip. 

Saturday night's dinner was the real climax of the 
trip — oysters, soup, canned asparagus, yams, canned 
plum pudding and to top it all, the "piece de resist- 
ance" "in memoriam" of Thursday's most glorious 
shoot, "Boast Goose and Fixin's." 



DEER HUNTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 



SOON after I bought my plantation and moved to 
Charleston, South Carolina, some of my friends 
suggested that I buy a share of the Liberty Hall 
Club. "No duck shooting, but good deer and wild 
turkey hunting, and some birds," was the way it was 
put up to me. 

As to location, this is the way it was described to me 
how to reach this sportsman's paradise: "You drive 
out the Meetin' Street road straight on till you come 
to the Blue House road to Sumerville; that's a little 
over fifteen miles from the Charleston County court 
house at Broad and Meeting streets. There you take 
the right-hand road over the Goose Creek causeway, on 
past the Parson's place, the 'Oaks,' and 'round the 
corner, take the first right-hand turn into the woods. A 
rough drive of about three miles over a muddy, cor- 
duroyed cow path, is a fair description of what you will 
have to accomplish to reach the modern bungalow club 
house of the Liberty Hall Club." Audubon himself 
hunted at this historic place. 

Being primarily a dyed-in-the-wool duck shooter, and 
coming from Missouri, I had to be shown, so at 6 o'clock 
one cool October morning I routed out a friendly member 

no 



DEER HUNTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 111 

when knew the road, and hazed the old Cadillac, with 
many a jolt and lurch, over the way to the club. 

The crowd there gave us a hearty welcome, and we 
were ushered in to one of Minnie's real South Caro- 
lina breakfasts of " grits," and lots of it, bacon, eggs 
and coffee, and last but not least, beaten biscuits. 

Having satisfied the inner man, the hunters mounted 
their prancing(f) steeds, some horses, but mostly mules 
brought in for a dollar a day by the neighboring negroes 
and followed Sammie Seal, the whipper-in and club- 
keeper, a fine-looking negro of pronounced Indian fea- 
tures, together with five couple of hounds, to "Nigger 
House and Cut Down," the first drive for the day. 

Sammie left us to "put in" the dogs, while "Pat" 
Lowndes and Frank Ford, two of the old timers, sta- 
tioned the standers, and gave us our instructions: 
"Several short blasts on Sammie 's horn means the start 
of the drive, and three long blasts means, 'Come here, 
all's over.' " 

I was placed a short distance from the main trail, 
and after tying my old mule to a sapling in a bunch of 
small pines behind my stand, I ' ' got set ' ' and waited for 
something to happen. 

Soon I heard Sam's horn, and not long afterwards 
the pack opened up in a wonderful burst of music. The 
sounds came directly towards me and shortly, through 
the open pine woods in front of me, I saw the flash of 
a white tail rocketing over the scrub growth, and a deer 
burst into view, apparently bound straight for me. Oh, 
no! I wasn't excited! 



112 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

Then I saw it was a "peg-horn" buck, and as there 
is a club law at Liberty Hall against shooting does, my 
excitement grew. 

To my disgust the deer kept bearing to my right, and 
finally stopped for a minute to get his bearings. I was 
tempted to shoot, though he was a long ways off, but I 
was afraid he was going to get through the line. I 
hadn't made up my mind when a shot sounded from my 
right, and the deer slid down out of sight behind a 
myrtle bush. 

Mayrant, the next stander, had scored. 

Loud blew the horns, and after the buck had been 
hung up in a tree, which we would recover on our way 
back, the cavalcade once more got under way. 

In "Rodford," the next drive, the dogs "jumped" 
again, but nothing but does were seen, one flashing past 
me not over fifteen yards away. 

"Leseman's Lead" was our next destination, where 
we were stationed in a half moon, while Lowndes, Ford 
and Huguenin, old-timers all, went into the drive with 
Sammie. 

Hardly were we on our stands when the hounds were 
put in, and immediately their wild music burst forth. 
"Look out! Look out! Buck! Buck!" cried Sammie, 
and "Bang! bang! bang!" sounded the guns. 

"Ah!" There he comes, bounding through the pine- 
land with tremendous leaps, his head, with a regular 
basket of horns atop, thrown well back. 

As he swept by the stander to my left, the friend with 



DEER HUNTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 113 

whom I had driven up that morning, he stepped out 
from behind a tree and with deliberate aim gave him 
two barrels. The bnck staggered, but I thought he was 
going to give me a shot as he kept on. Suddenly, just 
as I was going to pull trigger, he let go all fours and 
crashed to the ground. 

A four-point buck ! He surely was a king of the pine- 
land, and well worth the " bloodying " that welcomed 
my successful friend for killing his first deer. 

Do you wonder, after this experience, that I bought 
a share in the Liberty Hall Club? 

I Lose a Shirt Tail. 

The Friday following Thanksgiving, accompanied by 
Home, my plantation manager, his brother Johnnie, and 
his brother-in-law Moore, I drove in to Liberty Hall with 
the hopes of giving one of these North Carolina visitors 
a shot at a buck. It was afternoon when we arrived, 
but as we had consumed our lunch on the drive up, we 
did not lose any time and were soon ready for action. 

I placed my three visitors, Johnnie, Moore and Home, 
in the order named along the bank in the "Pasture" 
drive, directly behind the club house, took the "Bach- 
man," stand myself, and tied my horse at the "Pine 
Tree" stand, so if the deer came that way, he would be 
turned in my direction. 

With the clear notes of SanmnVs horn the drive 
was on, and soon "old Buck" opened up a little, to be 



114 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

followed by occasional squeals from some of the pups 
as they tried to work out a cold trail. This was enough 
to keep me right on edge, so I was certainly on the job 
and ready, waiting, when a tremendous uproar showed 
that the pack had " jumped.' ' The deer had been 
"lying-up" in front of Home's stand, and I expected 
him to get the shot. The wild music of the hounds 
showed that it was a " sight cry." Directly I saw the 
deer, a fine "two-snag" buck, literally flying towards 
"Pine Tree" stand with "Hard Times," "Buck" and 
"Logan" close at his heels. Seeing my horse, the buck 
swung to the left and flashed by the "Bachman" stand 
like a bullet. 

"Bang! bang" I turned two loads of No. 1 buckshot 
in his direction. The buck gave a tremendous leap, 
cleared the myrtle and gall berry bushes back of my 
stand, and disappeared "over the wire" into a neigh- 
boring preserve, "Stoney's." I ran to stop the dogs, 
but in vain. "Hard Times" simply swerved to one 
side and carried the rest of the pack, in full cry, off with 
him. 

I had lost the dogs, there was no more hunting for 
the day, and I was due to lose a shirt tail, the club's 
penalty for missing a buck. 

The Three-Snag Buck. 

Again I was at the "Bachman" stand. This time a 
year later, and on the last deer hunt of the season, the 
day before New Year's. 



DEER HUNTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 115 

Fire had raged through the pinelands and swamps the 
previous week and had thoroughly swept all the drives 
with the exception of "Big Mill Swamp' ' and the "Pas- 
ture. ' ' 

We had driven "Big Mill Swamp' ' that morning, had 
jumped two peg-horns and "Old Sure Shot" (W. F.) 
had downed one of them. Since then we had tucked one 
of Minnie's real dinners under our belts, and were fit 
to be in at the finish of one of the grandfather bucks 
that Sammie had told us about. 

I heard Sammie 's horn as he put the dogs in, and 
immediately, directly in front of me, appeared four 
deer. They were loping gracefully along towards the 
"Bachman" stand and apparently had not heard the 
dogs. The leader, a big doe, sailed by about thirty 
yards away, followed closely by a three-snag buck. I 
confess that I was shaking a little, but I took my time, 
saw the old fellow's shoulder well over the end of my 
gun, swung it with him, and, as I pulled, his hind legs 
let go, his front legs doubled under him, and with his 
head thrown back, he fell never to rise again. 

Behind the big fellow stood a two-snag buck, greatly 
bewildered, trying to figure out what had happened to 
his fellow. The fourth deer, a small doe, doubled back 
into the drive. 

I threw my gun on buck No. 2, and then pulled it 
down. With "Old Sure Shot's" buck, we had all the 
meat the party of seven could use and I didn't want to 
be a hog. I am sorry now I didn't shoot, as the deer 



116 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

was within twenty yards of me, and I could hardly have 
missed him. As it was, the buck dashed off towards the 
"Pine Tree" stand to be shot at by several standers, 
and was found dead by Sammie a week later from the 
resulting wounds. 

The Christening of "Old Sure Shot." 

About a year after I joined the Liberty Hall Club, 
we were unfortunate enough to lose Frank Ford, one of 
our most enthusiastic members, and one of the best 
known deer and turkey hunters in coastal South Caro- 
lina. 

Naturally when his brother Willie appeared on the 
scene in time for the deer hunting the following fall, we 
were anxious to see how he would "stack up." He 
showed us. 

We had started the hunt, as we often did, with the 
"Nigger House" and "Cut Down" drive. The dogs 
jumped and carried the deer off towards "Dug Ground" 
and the right flank of the standers. Then one shot, the 
call of the horns summoned us, and we rode over to the 
old log tramway to find Willie Ford sitting nonchalantly 
on his horse, with a peg-horn buck lying in the pine 
thicket in front of him. "Only need one shot," says 
he, and was straightway christened "Old Sure Shot." 

In "Rodford," the next drive, the dogs jumped again, 
but the buck, a peg-horn which Sammie saw, doubled 
back and escaped into a swampy, overgrown bottom. 



DEER HUNTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 117 

There were no tracks leading out, so we ringed the cover 
and put the dogs in. Directly they jumped, and shortly 
we heard a shot. 

When the crowd came up, there was Willie Ford, sit- 
ting with his back against a pine tree calmly smoking 
a cigarette. "What did you shoot at, Willie V 9 cried 
"Pat" Lowndes. "There's a buck lying over there," 
said Ford, pointing to some bushes about eighty yards 
from where he sat. Sure enough there lay the peg-horn. 
A long shot — and again — only one barrel. It seemed 
if Ford's nickname had been well chosen. 

Now there is an old saying, ' ' The truth will out, ' ' and 
later in the day, after a noticeable amount of whispering 
and laughing between Willie Ford and "Pat" Lowndes, 
they owned up that "Pat" had killed the first deer, and 
then placed Ford, who was on the next stand, so that 
the rest of the crowd would think he had shot it. Also 
it transpired that the second deer was not over thirty 
yards away when killed, and Ford had walked back to 
where we found him to make it look like a long shot. 

The strange part of it is that despite these incon- 
gruities, the name still sticks, and Willie Ford is known 
by all of us as "Old Sure Shot." 



AMONG THE CAROLINA "HENS" 
AND "GOBBLERS" 



BESIDES deer, wild turkeys were plentiful my first 
year at Liberty Hall. Several were shot as they 
were flying over in the deer drives, and I had 
loosed a couple of loads of buckshot at an old gobbler 
as he topped the pines coming out of " Turkey' ' drive, 
but without effect. 

I had been keeping my two horses at the club until my 
stables were completed at the plantation, and when 
Home and I drove up before daylight one morning in 
late January, our early start was with the purpose of 
getting a shot at a gobbler before breakfast. 

Sammie placed us along the ridge at the edge of 
"Big Mill ,, swamp, the writer in a stand behind the 
huge root of a fallen pine, and Home in a thicket over 
a quarter of a mile from me. The turkeys had been 
taking the bait in front of my stand, and we could hear 
the clucking of the old hens behind us in the swamp. 

With the coming of daylight the turkey talk ceased, 
and I kept peeking out over the old root looking for 
arrivals. Nothing appeared except a red bird or two, 
a mocking bird, a brown thrush, and a Carolina wren. 
It looked as though the turkeys had decided on another 
course that day. 

118 



AMONG THE CAROLINA "HENS" AND "GOBLERS" 119 

All at once I heard two shots over in Home's direct- 
ion, and when I looked over that way the air was black 
with turkeys flying in all directions. Presently one flew 
by me well up in the tree-tops and my chance shot pro- 
duced no result. Then a small hen came by lower down 
and at the report of my second barrel she doubled up 
in mid-flight and came crashing down through the 
branches. An eight-pound hen turkey. 

Home soon showed up, carrying another hen, the 
mate of mine. He said that after waiting a while he 
saw what he first thought was a drove of hogs heading 
his way. Then he realized that it was a flock of over 
twenty-five wild turkeys. He kept perfectly still, and 
they passed by about sixty yards from where he sat. 
He picked out the nearest bird and shot both barrels as 
he wanted to be sure of it at the long range. When 
the turkeys flew, one of them alighted in a pine within 
gunshot. He had reloaded his gun but was so excited 
that he forgot to throw off the safety, and kept pointing 
the gun at the turkey, and pulling the trigger, wondering 
why it didn't go off, until' the bird got tired of waiting 
and flew off. 

A Gobbler Gits. 

Another morning Sammie and I had heard an old 
gobbler who was gobbling in the swamp, and Sammie 
had induced me to perch myself on a fallen tree about 



120 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

ten feet up in the air. The branches made a fair screen 
in front of me, but I was in plain sight from behind. 
It seemed as if the turkey would cross the ridge where 
my stand was located, and sure enough, he answered 
my first imitation of the call of a hen turkey. I called 
again after a short interval, and then once more, but no 
response. The old fellow had probably found his harem. 
All at once I heard a peculiar call just behind me to 
the right, and very gradually turned my head so that I 
could look over my shoulder. There stood a young 
gobbler. He had just stepped out of the thicket into 
the open, and was giving the vicinity a careful and 
very thorough inspection. Finally he decided the coast 
was clear and walked on, occasionally scratching and 
picking up berries and mast. He got directly behind 
me so that I lost sight of him, but I could hear him 
rustling the leaves and scratching. I was in a predica- 
ment. By the time I was able to get turned around and 
in a position to shoot, the turkey would certainly be gal- 
loping out of range like a race-horse. I determined to 
wait and see if the confounded bird would work around 
in front of me. Minutes seemed like hours, but I must 
have sat there motionless for at least ten minutes listen- 
ing to the picking and scratching. I lost patience at 
last and swung around on my elevated perch, nearly 
capsizing as I tried to bring my gun to bear on the now 
fleeting gobbler. He was practically out of range and 
going like the wind. I fired once for luck, and as he 



AMONG CAROLINA "HENS" AND "GOBBLERS" 121 

flew off, one solitary feather came floating to the ground. 
The gobbler was gone. 

A Nineteen-Pound Patriarch. 

Turkeys had been taking the bait at the gum thicket 
regularly and Sammie said there was a very large gob- 
bler in the drove. So one balmy morning in March I 
put my boy, Eay, in the stand, leaving Sammie with 
him with instructions not to shoot any hens but wait for 
the old gobbler. 

I sat down with my back to a pine tree and began to 
call. Soon a gobbler answered and then another. I 
kept calling and they answering. Finally one grew 
silent. Then I heard a tremendous " gobble! gobble! 
gobble !" from some myrtles one hundred yards away 
on my left. My heart seemed to thump so loud that I 
was sure it would scare the turkey away. Bang! bang! 
sounded Bay's gun. I was sure that my own chances 
were over and that my gobbler would be scared off by 
the loud reports, so I stood up and started off in their 
direction. Directly I spied my turkey, out of range, 
running off like the wind. (Some of the old turkey 
hunters told me later that I should have waited and the 
gobbler would have come out to me despite the other 
shots. Encouraging, eh?) 

The first thing I saw at the gum thicket was a huge 
gobbler out in front of the stand. He was kicking and 
struggling to rise, but a closer inspection showed that 



122 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

a stout cord round his red legs hobbled him securely. 
Presently his struggles ceased, his alert old head fell 
forward and the gobbler was dead. Nineteen pounds 
full, the scales showed, and you don't often get them 
larger, the record weight at Liberty Hall being twenty 
pounds and fourteen ounces. 

Kay had had some experience. Hardly was he settled 
in the stand before a turkey hen stalked out of the 
bushes, and after the usual careful inspection, started 
in on her breakfast. Bay watched her for over half an 
hour before she got fed up and departed. Then three 
more hens appeared and Bay watched them picking and 
scratching for some time. At last he and Sammie had 
about lost patience. Bay wanted to shoot a hen, and 
Sammie was ready to tell him to go ahead, when they 
heard ' ' Pumph ! pumph ! ' ' in the thicket, and there came 
strutting out an old gobbler followed by three more hens. 
A regular Sultan with his seraglio. 

At Bay's first shot the old fellow crumpled up in a 
heap, but immediately was on his feet again and streak- 
ing for cover. Bay's second barrel scored the turkey, 
promiscuously with big shot, and down he went again. 
This time, when he started to get up, Sammie, with a 
tremendous leap, cleared the top of the stand, grabbed 
him, and tied him up where I found him on my arrival. 

A mighty proud moment for Bay when he rode in to 
breakfast with the old "Patriarch" with his flowing 
beard, tied to his saddle bow! 



DUCK SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 
RICE FIELDS 



DUCK shooting lias ever had an attraction for me. 
In February a few seasons ago I had the great 
good fortune to be a "pay guest' ' for two days 
at Cherokee, the hospitable plantation home of the 
gifted author of "A Woman Rice Planter.' ' This beau- 
tiful old place with its avenue of live oaks, its old- 
fashioned garden with the japonicas, azaleas, crepe 
myrtles and Lady Campbell violets and its old Colonial 
house looking out over the tawny Pedee River, is situ- 
ated on the banks of the Pedee some fourteen miles out 
of Georgetown, S. C. 

A flivver, piloted by some local Barney Oldneld, 
showed me a swift flight over the rutted apology for a 
road, and also flushed two wild turkeys a mile or so 
out of town. It grew dark before we reached our des- 
tination, but as we turned in the avenue the full mooii 
was just rising, and its pale lights sifting down through 
the moss-hung live oaks on the old white house with its 
pillared porch gave me an impression of the "old time 
South' ' that I shall never forget. 

"Chloe," Mrs. Pennington's old cook, certainly knew 
how to make waffles, and there were plenty of them 

123 



124 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

ready for me when I arrived. Later, Joe, the house 
boy, showed me up to my room, where I mounted some 
steps to leap into the huge feather bed. The quacking 
of the mallards in the rice fields across the river lulled 
me to sleep. 

Shortly before daybreak Joe roused me, and started 
a " light wood" blaze on the hearth in the warmth of 
which I hustled on my shooting clothes. In the dining 
room Joe had breakfast ready of boiled eggs, hominy, 
sausage, toast and coffee, all cooked over the open fire, 
and then Joe Keit took me in hand. 

The canoe was paddled up river, crossed over and 
sped on through a maze of rice field ditches and canals 
into the "Thoroughfare." Occasionally we surprised a 
mallard into splashing up out of the reeds with a 
startled quack, but it was still too dark to shoot. At 
last an old greenhead with swiftly beating wings rose 
against the faint pink of the horizon that announced 
the coming dawn. His black silhouette was too good a 
chance to miss, and he splashed into the canal at my 
first barrel. At the report of my gun legions of ducks 
roared up from the old rice fields, and the air was full 
of the "whee-whee-wheeing" of the countless wings. I 
am sure that all the ducks on the Carolina coast were 
holding a convention in "Marshfield." Every now and 
then pairs and singles and small flocks would dart out 
over the bank of the "Thoroughfare" ahead of the 
canoe and a number of them stayed behind to join the 
bag. Then, too, we "jumped" a few ducks around the 



DUCK SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 125 

bends of the twisting stream. As the sun rose higher 
the ducks stopped moving, and we paddled back to the 
landing on the Pedee. 

In the evening Joe paddled me out into the wild rice 
in "Marshfield" to a little muddy pond-hole where we 
set out a half a dozen blocks. Then we shoved back 
into the rice at the pond's edge. There was little air 
stirring and the ducks did not begin moving in till near 
dark. I had the decoys so placed that when the birds 
hovered over them before alighting they would be 
plainly outlined against the moonlight. With such 
chances it was nearly impossible to miss, and I had 
hardly downed one before one or two more would be 
flickering in the pale light. I suppose if I had cared to 
keep on I could have killed a hundred ducks, but twenty- 
five seemed plenty, and at that, I added five or six more 
to my string while Joe was picking up the ducks and 
decoys. 

On the Santee River. 

The following winter the "Missus" and my two boys 
joined me on my trip to Georgetown. Unhappily Mrs. 
Pennington was ill and could not have us at Cherokee, 
but we were lucky enough to discover another haunt of 
the "pay guests" at Annandale Plantation, six miles 
down Winy ah Bay, There we spent a long-to-be-remem- 
bered ten days hunting deer, turkeys and ducks, and 
of this latter I shall make special mention. 



126 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

The plantation consisted of some 4,400 acres, 2,300 of 
which were old rice fields along both banks of the North 
Santee. Two hundred acres had been planted the past 
season, but the greater part of this "duck habitat" was 
grown up in wild rice. There were plenty of ducks, but 
the equipment of boats and decoys were rather slim, 
and the feeding grounds being so vast, that unless 
blustery weather occurred to keep the birds moving, 
one fired a few shots where first located, and the duck 
battalions hied themselves to pastures new where there 
were no gunners. 

One evening of a cold, stormy day, the spitting rain 
and sleet fast turning into snow, the boys and I crossed 
the river to a small reedy island where the luxuriant 
growth of wild rice made it a famous " hang-out" for 
English ducks (mallards). I took my stand on an old 
rice field bank near the landing, while the boys went on 
with the negro who had paddled us across, as he was the 
only one of us who had on hip boots, and even then 
many of the rice field ditches were too deep for him to 
cross to retrieve the birds. 

It was certainly cold and uncomfortable on that 
muddy rice field bank, and the wet snow made it hard 
to see, but a continuous flight of mallards streamed 
past, and the weather was such that they would 
hardly seem to notice the reports of my gun in the roar 
of the gale. The first duck I killed dropped on the 
farther side of the deep ditch in front of me. The 
next one crashed into the reeds across the canal behind 



DUCK SHOOTING IN SOUTH CAROLINA 127 

me, as did the third and fourth. I knew that they were 
all "lost birds,' 7 so afterwards chose only those shots 
where I was reasonably sure of downing the ducks on 
the bank beside me. At that I had seventeen, sixteen 
mallards and one pintail, when the boys came back on 
their way to the boat. 

Ducking at "Rice Hope." 

In January a friend of mine had invited me to a 
duck shoot at "Bice Hope," one of the old rice planta- 
tions some thirty miles up the Cooper River from my 
home at Charleston. The ninety-horse-power motor 
cruiser "Nokomis" transported us up the river and 
back, and formed our "home camp" while at the planta- 
tion of my friend. 

We arrived in time for the eveniug shoot and the 
hunters divided, most of them to take stands on the rice 
field banks or dykes, or in the reeds out in the fields to 
shoot over decoys. I was allotted a Mullins "tin boat" 
to paddle through the rice field ditches "jumping" ducks 
and keeping the birds moving for the standers. It was 
easy shooting as the fat rice-fed mallards would stay 
hidden in the thick patches of reeds and wild rice till 
I nearly paddled on top of them, when with loud quacks 
of alarm, preparing me for their appearance, they would 
flop up out of the cover which they were so reluctant 
to leave. With my paddle tied to a thwart, and my gun 
(with the "safe" off) across my knees, it was a simple 
matter to get lined up on the old fellows before they 



128 SCATTER-GUN SKETCHES 

were fully straightened out in full flight. I had an even 
dozen, all mallards, when I got back, and the standers 
all had their share. 

In the morning all of us shot out of stands in the rice 
over decoys. The day was warm with practically no 
wind, so after the first flurry at daylight, the shooting 
was rather slow. Still when we "shoved off" at noon 
the total for the evening and morning shoots with four 
gunners was 114 ducks. I had a stand in part of the 
old plantation known as "Fish Pond." There was a 
little open water directly in front of me and also on my 
right, but on all other sides I was surrounded by wild 
rice and reeds towering over my head. The ducks that 
came my way, mostly blackheads, with a few mallards, 
would flash into sight without warning, and while a few- 
hovered over the decoys, most of them gave me a snap 
shot as they started to disappear again over the reeds. 
I picked up fifteen, but was unable to find a number of 
birds that dropped dead in the jungle of rice and reeds. 

Duck shooting on the South Carolina coast is unique, 
apart from its quantities of ducks and their distinctive 
abode in the old rice fields, in its environment — the old 
plantations, rich in historic interest. One can easily 
imagine himself following the "Swamp Fox" (Francis 
Marion) along the twisting "Thoroughfare," or through 
the maze of rice field ditches in the Santee swamp, his 
shotgun a flintlock musket, his game no swift-flying 
mallard or lightning-darting teal, but the skulking 
Tory, or the red-jacketed Tarleton trooper. 



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